Last night I had dreams about elephants on parade through the neighborhood. This morning I woke up to find four motorcycles parked in my neighbor’s driveway. They are very pretty bikes, but not nearly as entertaining as elephants would have been. Oh yes, there will be much coffee this morning. But first, the writing prompt. Are you ready? Good, then let’s get to it.
Meh. Not my favorite. Useful later maybe, but still not my favorite.
Wednesday, December 22nd: The stain was dark and ugly.
The stain was dark and ugly. He stared at it. How much blood soaked into the floorboards? He didn’t know. He knew that the blood had technically been removed, but the removal process left behind a discoloration. He wondered if it was simply that the chemical removers took the stain off of the boards or if the wood itself had been damaged. From his position by the door, he couldn’t tell.
He hadn’t yet made himself get closer.
The room was emptier than he had ever seen it. The throw rug, damaged in the struggle, was gone. He wasn’t certain if it was evidence and taken by someone official or if it was so badly damaged that it had been disposed of by someone well meaning. He didn’t particularly care.
Even if it were whole and unmarred he would not be putting it back down on the floor. It had been tainted by recent events. It would not be returning.
There was not as much furniture as there had been there. Several of the smaller chairs were broken. A larger chair had been thrown through the window. A sheet of plywood covered the broken glass and kept much of the sunlight out of the space making it seem darker and more forbidding despite the sunshine pouring in through the other windows the room boasted.
He didn’t want to think about the chairs. Yet his eyes kept drifting towards the one remaining from the set. It looked untouched but was shoved against the wall, out of the way. His eyes drifted down to the legs. The chairs hadn’t been broken by accident, or if they had the attackers made use of the accident. The chair’s legs, spindly looking to his eyes, proved substantial enough when used as weapons.
He dragged his eyes around the room. Whoever cleansed had been thorough. He had arrived when the blood was still fresh, still dripping down the walls and spreading across the floor. There was a heavy scent to the room then. Now the air smelled light and pine fresh. For some reason the pine scent made his stomach bunch up. He wanted to heave, but he hadn’t eaten anything. The burning bile rose up in his throat anyway. He swallowed it back down.
There was no trace of the blood and only the dark and ugly stain on the floor. Again he thought of going to it to see how deep the damage went, but he couldn’t force himself to do it. He stepped back into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Here there were still traces of the violence. There were missing pieces, broken in the attack. The broken bits were cleared away and disposed of. There were scratches and dents to the woodwork. But there was no blood here, There hadn’t been any bloodshed here.
And so it was less of an assault to his senses to move through these passageways.
It provoked less of a reaction. Still it was with relief that he made it to the front door again and stepped outside onto the front stoop.
Ten til Midnight 