Hagel, dema
There's a slight discoloration on my forearms now. On my fingers, and a small spot on my neck too. It's what happens when blood sits there for too long; when the life of someone you've killed burns away at your skin, but you are too exhausted to wash it off.
You stay quiet, alone for a few days. The only thought that can enter your mind is that your skin itches. So you finally wash it off.
You never think about them. You never wonder if they died fast or slow, or if they are leaving anyone behind. You can't. It would destroy you.
You don't have to.
--
She enters the room and everything grows quiet. It's strange how we all knew it was her even before our heads snapped in her direction.
"I need to borrow your car." She said it low and almost silent. I assumed she was addressing Scott, although her body was facing me. She was barefoot and wearing old jeans. A bulky jacket belied but could not hide her sunken frame.
Her hair was gone: all that was left were the two white streaks framing her pale face and messy tufts covering the rest of her head.
"I… sure… What for?" Scott rubbed his head (we all knew what he was thinking) and looked at her curiously.
"I need more soap."
end
hagel, dema means "field of blood" in Sanskrit.