Saturday's Storyteller: "The silk pooled like blood at her feet."

by Belinda Roddie

The silk pooled like blood at her feet. She hugged the pillow, gripping it tightly enough so that her whitening fingers disappeared into its fleshy folds, like she was squeezing an animal to death. In front of me, the man lay quietly, the red still trickling from his forehead like dark drops of wine.

She hadn't meant to hit him so hard. She thought the glass would shatter into tiny little pieces, yielding to the sturdiness of the man's skull. She thought, perhaps, she'd miss, or he'd slip out of the way, before he wrestled her to the floor again. Putting his hands into hers, his mouth on hers, his everything on hers. Smearing her lipstick. Also red. But she had not expected him to fall like that, to crumple like a wet towel descending sadly from its metal rack. She hadn't expected him to bleed.

Gathering her senses, she let the hem of her gown brush against the carpet as she scurried to the bathroom, dropping the pillow in the meantime. She wanted to clean herself up. The man wasn't dead, she was sure of that, but once he came to, he would be angry. She splashed water on her face and then went to fetch her purse. It felt lighter than usual. Like a ghost of its former self.

The man did not wake up. Not when she walked out of the hotel. Not when she locked the door, scurried down the stairs, and called a cab. Not when the crash was heard outside, as the taxi sped straight into a nearby telephone pole. Silk spilled everywhere. Red stained the windows.

This week's prompt was provided by Laine Flores.