The prompt list for these (if anyone in this beyond-dead fandom is interested) is on my tumblr, which has the same penname as I do on here. Sue me. I'm a simple soul. Enjoy and whatnot. I know about this factoid (blood feeling rather like sticky melted ice cream) not because I am a mass-murderer with no gloves and no morals, but because I had a heavy nosebleed once while on a bike ride and had nothing but my hands to keep myself from staining one of my favorite shirts. Interestingly enough, I discovered this information, and also how to bike one-handed.
June 27th, 2018
Blood is, surprisingly, rather sticky.
Shion remembers hearing about it in some of the torrid novels she's read at St. Lucia Academy (the presence of which surprised her to no end, because why would such a prim and uptight place have horror lining its shelves? Another impenetrable mystery of Christians.), but the reality is still far more pressing than words, even well-written words in dusty-sweet old tomes.
It's still warm, though Rika's tiny sprawled body, buried inexpertly under all those newspapers in a futile attempt to keep the blood from spreading –it blooms in wet, fuzzy patches on the thin cheap paper, crimson blotches welling up behind the black type under you can hardly read anything– or staining the wood permanently, is currently in the process of cooling. She must have hit several very important arteries with that knife Shion had been so careless as to leave in her reach.
Shion's hands are covered in in the glistening ichor, and her bare feet leave smudged, red patches on the dry, cool wooden floorboards as she walks to the telephone and back. The feeling of wood under of wet skin of her feet comforts her, somehow; maybe it's because the sensation is so familiar. Shion's come in from the rain like this in her childhood, and after a bath, and if her socks were wet, and a thousand-and-one other, mundane occurrences that make the smear of wetness under her soles as she moves soothing rather than macabre, and the smooth bare wood under her toes comforting rather than subtly unnatural and repellent.
But it really is sticky. She wipes at her hands with a damp cloth absently as she speaks to Keiichi, keeping the phone cradled between her ear and her shoulder. She's careful to keep both the cord and the receiver away from the drying patches of blood on Mion's tacky yellow T-shirt. Can't be giving the game away like that. Got to keep things as clean as possible.
But this blood, honestly!
If Rika had purposefully gone out to make Shion's life difficult, she could not possibly have done better. The wet red gloves on her hands only smeared and lightened as she wiped at them with the cloth, and Shion frowns as she feel the crusty, feathery splintering of the stuff under her nails as it starts to dry out. While warm, the texture of the blood feels very similar to a melted icy pop, or the drool of ice cream from the bottom of a cone that got all over one's hands. It's a disturbingly familiar sensation, she feels –shouldn't blood feel, oh, different? Less…commonplace?
But no. Aside from those crusty drying flakes, if Shion closed her eyes, she would have been prepared to swear that a cone of ice cream had just been microwave-melted all over her hands. And feet. Like thighs to a plastic chair on a warm day, the soles of her feet stuck to the floor, and shifting minutely produced a soft prickling feeling and a tearing sound, like saran wrap being peeled away from itself, as she broke the seal of the clotting blood.
Shion grinned as she hung up the phone, striding back over to where Rika Furude still lay, covered in a patchwork veil of old newspapers. Her grin faded, and she looked at the splotches and pools and droplets of blood that liberally coated the wooden-floored-and-walled antechamber with a sigh.
This was going to require so much bleach, and scrubbing, and polishing, that she probably wouldn't even see her bed tonight, either.
How bothersomely annoying of Rika.
10.48 PM, USA Central Time