After Orson leaves, I feel filthy. Impure.
I wash my hands, over and over again, and think about how nothing is sacred anymore. All I want is to feel clean again. God, if I could have one wish, make me untouched and whole. Lord, take me back, before this happened, before I knew the names Van de Kamp or Hodge, and give me another chance.
But second chances are fictional, and I receive no vision or miracle worthy of Jeanne d'Arc. There is only an empty house, a useless first-floor bedroom, and a son for whom I've sacrificed everything.
I stop washing my hands. There is no rinsing their stain.
