AN: I tried, I really did. I did. M'sorry, m'sorry, I tried, I just…m'sorry.-J.
Jason looks at the pale red stains on his hands where the blood soaked through his gloves. He should wash it off. He knows that. But it doesn't matter, does it. It won't come off.
What, will these hands ne'er be clean?
All the same, he turns the water on and lets the weak stream wash over his palms and his fingers, coming off slightly pink. The stains do not fade.
He'd tried. Honest to God, he'd tried, it's just…
People don't usually do so well after getting their throat slit. He knows that. Logically, all he did was prolong the inevitable. But emotionally…
She'd died. She'd died with her vocal cords cut and the gash ragged and raw and just one big blood bubble under his hands. She'd died and the guy got away and Jason's not sure if she was married or had kids or what but her eyes were scared. Even after she died, they were scared.
The pipes gurgle and spit and SHIT that's HOT-oh. That's what happens, apparently, when you turn the 'hot' knob and don't turn the 'cold' one.
He turns the other knob and rubs his fingertips together, rough flesh under unyielding red. Lukewarm drops of water splash up onto his wrists. Feels like blood, kinda. But this'll come off and the blood won't and she-
She looked like Mom. Not really, not, like, clone, but…her eyes. Her eyes were the same color and she had the same laughter lines there.
And it's his fault. She's dead and it's his fault because he'd tried to talk the guy-druggie, probably didn't even mean to do this-down rather than jump him, but he was tryin' to help. That's all. He was just…
He turns the water off with more force than necessary. It's not doing anything. He can't get the stains out.
He'll never get the stains out.
THE END