Blood Stained Concrete 소설 & 이야기

The soaked bedding felt like it was being weighed down by every person I had outlived when I dragged it outside and dumped it with the rest of the belongings. I used the crib as a footstool to reach the outline of the podium and force it open to let in the cold night air. My nostrils stung from the blood on the floor when I yanked out a bucket from underneath the sink and dumped water across it. Scraping at the sludge with the steel wool side of a sponge I found seemed to make it worse, until the discoloured floor began peering through. Would they always be stained like that? It felt like scrubbing did no good in trying to completely remove the silhouette of the murder scene at all. At least

I stepped over a fallen archway and entered. My foot crunched onto broken tiles, and immediately I saw it—dark stains pooled at the center of the cracked floor, almost too old to be noticed unless you looked closely. I knelt down. The stains weren’t just dark; they were deep. Almost etched into the floor itself. Blood. Old blood. Dried and yet… still holding its shape. My breath caught as I brushed my fingers over it. The texture was grainy, sticky with age. Not paint. Not rust. It was blood. And it had formed into something.

It is thick, metallic, and hot. “Do you smell what I smell?” I ask Jane to be sure. “I might be smelling something worse than you are,” she responds, her face twisted in disgust. We take one careful step onto the block, and our boots stick to the floor. We look down and realize the concrete is flooded. We pass glances, inhaling sharply before we look up. My stomach drops, there’s blood everywhere. It splashes across the high windows, blocking the morning light; it runs down the grey walls in long, dark streaks. It is smeared over the iron bars. The entire block is painted red.

He pressed his fingertips to the concrete. His blood had been here. He couldn't see it anymore, it had been four days, and whatever facilities management protocol St. Catherine's used had presumably addressed the obvious evidence, but the ghost of it was still present in the molecular record that paint and cleaning solution couldn't fully erase. He knew his own blood the way he knew his own heartbeat. That was his. That stain, slightly darker than the surrounding concrete, roughly two meters from the drainage grate. That was where he'd been lying. And overlaid on it, threaded through it, caught in the porous surface of the concrete like something pressed between pages…

The coppery smell of blood floods my senses the moment we walk in. Liam freezes behind me as our presence goes completely ignored by Dr. Sari and Billy. Billy works diligently with a small squeeze bottle spraying the back of Beatrice’s head, soaking the once clumpy red hairs in a sudsy liquid solution. The solution the sprays on clear drips down from the side of the table in little pink splatters of water onto the musty white carpet, rendering the area around Billy’s feet completely pink and wet.

I wiped the crimson spilled over my shoulders and left of my face with a white cloth I have prepared earlier just for this purpose. My stiff hands were gritting with force as I remove the splatter of blood from my face all while staring at the horror before my eyes, sitting comfortably on a red couch remembering if I ever did my work this messy before. Bodies atop of one another and their blood spilled like hot milk on the slight sheen of the floor. The air is thick with the stench of blood as though you licked the rust off of the metal.

Everything about him is precise, controlled, perfect. Something’s wrong. I crouch down, my fingers brushing the fabric, finding it stiff in places. When I lift it, straightening on my feet, sunlight catches on a clean slice through the shoulder. But it’s the blood that makes my breath catch—dark brown stains spread across the white cotton like a Rorschach test of violence. I’ve never seen him bleed before…

The workers shouted in unison. Allen Peterson nodded and took out the concrete he had just picked up from behind. "I just went to the construction site and took a little concrete for construction. This piece should be the same as the concrete you found today. As for the other piece, it should be a few days ago. Let's check it together!" Allen Peterson said. Then he took two pieces of concrete and smashed the Stone on the ground.

She straightened, tucking the laces in. "Work from the edges. Rub in circles, inward, until the blood lifts from the fibers. Marcus buried over sixty puns in the covenant. That's over sixty bloodstains. Hot water would ruin it. The blood would set—impossible to wash out. Only cold water. Seeping from the edges."

I took a cautious step forward — and felt my shoe dip into something slick. I glanced down, sharpening my wolf vision to pierce the gloom. It wasn’t mud, nor water. It was blood. Dark, congealed, and pooling in shallow hollows. My gaze followed the blood to where scattered bones lay half-buried beneath moss and dirt. Not old enough to be forgotten, not fresh enough to still reek. The sight settled a cold knot in my gut. My muscles tensed. This wasn’t just another decaying part of the ruin.