The wetness started to soak into my dress. It would swipe my leg as I walked, leaving indentations of red, like a signature. Hurry! The wound started to flood with blood, a deep red ink about to expose my secret at any moment.
There was already someone in the bathroom when I walked in. I scuttle to a stall not wanting to bleed on the floor. But once in, the molecules of hemoglobin couldn’t hold. All I could think about as my blood stained the floor and left dozens of splatters was the CSI team coming in to test my DNA. Linking the crime to me. Inevitable. I grabbed as much toilet paper as I could and tried to stop the hemorrhaging while using my other hand to wipe the floor. Blood’s surprisingly hard to clean.
Instead of soaking into the paper, the splatter now smeared across the tiles in a rusted orange. More paper. More scrubbing. The stain on my dress is seeping in, binding with the fabric, increasingly permanent.
Shit! I’m out if toilet paper. I grab my purse and head for the sink. A business woman glances at me with disdain, casually questioning my sorry state.
“I’m fine. Sorry.”
What else could I say?
The paper towels disappeared in handfuls. I tuck the three pieces of the remaining tissue paper from the box neatly over the wound. Its flow was steady now. Under control. More scrubbing. My dress almost turning back to its normal color, except wet. My hair lay in a disheveled mess on top in my head, wondering if it will ever see a brush again.
The phone rings.
“Where are you?”
Fuck, I’m late. I rinse my hand, tuck more paper towels over the wound, tussle my hair and walk out in my three inch white leather heels, pretending to know what I’m doing.
