She never knew she could bleed so much. The hot liquid filled her mouth, forcing her to part her lips and gag to avoid it flooding down her throat. Dark splashes of crimson splattered on the wooden floorboards.
It tastes like metal. Like iron.
Amid the sounds of her gasping, choking, and spitting, she tried to listen. Praying that she wouldn't hear those footsteps. Those heavy, slow, formidable footsteps.
There was no looking-glass in the house. There had never been a need for one. But the window pane served well enough. The dim, transparent reflection was all she wanted to see. Her lips, chin, neck, and dress were smeared with bloodstains. It was dried now, but she could still taste it.
Just like iron.
The warm water was so soothing. She paid little attention to the voice of the strange, old woman with slate-grey hair and hard eyes as she ranted on about the injustices of the world. The sponge scrubbing over her chin and neck, dripping warm, soapy water down her front felt too good to worry about anything else.
Except she could see a table across the room. A setting was laid out, as if the old woman were about to serve a meal for herself. A plate, spoon, fork, knife, cup. The girl fixed her eyes upon the knife and stared at it, while her face was turned this way and that, the sponge grating over the spots where the blood refused to come off.
I wonder if that knife tastes like blood. Like iron.
I wonder if he'd like to know what iron tastes like.
