Sam knew there was blood even before he opens the door. He could smell it in the air, taste it even; and this wasn’t simply because he had grown quite apt at noticing such things either. No. It was the share volume of it that made its presence so very obvious. Sam couldn’t help the shiver that ghosted through his body as his hand unwittingly went for the handle of the door and opens it.
His hands drop to his side as the content of the room slowly reveals itself as the door keeps opening ever so slowly, his mouth working words his voice doesn’t utter. His eyes seem to be dancing around the room, touching everything, yet taking nothing in. The takes a step forward but trips over his own feet, falling farther into the room. His hands automatically move to break his fall, colliding with the ground.
Wet, his mind tells him, but he couldn’t seem to make sense of it.
Your hand is wet, it says again. He pulls his hand up to inspect them and finds them coated in a sticky substance. A sticky substance that shined red in the moonlight dripping in through the room’s window. A steaky substance that seemed to have flowed from quite a distance.
Don’t look, his mind tells him. Turn back and don’t look. But he couldn’t even hear that. Not when the sticky substance was calling him, drawing his attention from the puddle he just dipped his hand into, to the fountain where it all came from.
His eyes trailed the puddle to the bed, even as his mind kept scream at him not to...