The Scent of Iron

You get used to the smell, or so I realized.

The scent of drying metallic iron bloomed long before I saw red, filling my senses until prickly tears formed in my eyes. The air tasted like death, the thick coppery perfume of a life quickly fading—and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it.

Blood was everywhere, absolutely everywhere, as though the walls themselves began to bleed—sickly, syrupy, sticky blood. I didn’t mean for there to be so much of it but that should have been my first warning, the one I kept repeating to myself second-after-agonizing-second—when things first started going wrong. I never meant for any of this to happen, but it had. I should have stopped when things were good. But now, now, it was just about as bad as it could be and I couldn’t explain a single second of what had happened.

This was an accident, but that didn't change a single thing.

The house grew quieter and quieter and quieter until nothing but silence remained in the halls. This was no good sign—at least not for me. You see, you want noise when blood is involved. You want chaos, disruption and agony. It means breathing, it means life, and there wasn’t much going on by way of that, not even for me.

The pipes trickled water through and through. Knocking on the hour of midnight like a silent caller, desperately begging to be let in. But to me, the water was the signal of everything I had just lost— life, freedom, my conscious. Little reminders asking to be let in. Reminders of the daunting task that lie ahead. The clean-up, the disposal, the rehearsal. Words that would hang heavy on my lips, each breath clouded by the air of more blood, as it rested on my tongue. Fresh intermingling with old. There was simply so much—and if we are being honest, as one should be at a time like this—there wasn’t enough water that could clean this—not from the floors, or the walls, or my body.

Think… Think… Think… What would mother do in this situation?

The thoughts of running away and burning the house had crossed my mind several times, I just couldn’t get the flame to ignite on the burner, I just couldn’t quite get my feet to move quick enough. Time seemed to slow down and settle—just as the blood had. Leaving me immobile.

But for now, I would have to run the bath. Make it look as ordinary and non-contrite as possible. This was, after-all, supposed to be our first night working together. People would be coming within the next few hours to rent rooms—they can’t all die. No, no, that would be bad. Bad for business, bad for me, bad for everyone involved.

But that was no matter, no matter what I did, the blood seemed to multiply, to grow, to seep into places unseen, hardening—drying, decaying. Killing me with each impervious drop. It was as though the blood was a poison and I was its victim—not the other way around.

Naturally, as it were, I thought the scene would be smaller, much more contained. But it wasn’t—and you see, it’s not as though blood asks to be invited in. It just pours out, showing itself to the floor, to the wood grain, the baseboards, the carpet, my clothes. Not polite, not precise, not invited. Just steadily ingratiating itself into my calm, clean world—and that, that would just not do.

Blood and death, alas, do not respect—even the best of plans—and this was by far the worst one I had come up with yet.

Blood spread itself wide across my overly polished wood floors, the grain becoming little syrupy rivers of irreversible guilt as it mixed in with the lemon scented wax. Cracks and smudges I had never seen before began to appear, playing tricks on my eyes and my mind. Gathering at every edge of the room, just visible enough for a nosey passerby to notice. Taking up space like it belonged, like it had been waiting beneath the rug to seep out and rise for this very occasion. But I noticed. I remembered staring at it, hours must have passed, quietly creeping by undisturbed. I stared, thinking how absurd it must be to not have any feelings towards what might happen next. How the blood might magically disappear, but instead, it sure looked much brighter than I realized, much heavier than I expected with each opening and closing of my eyes.

It was certainly all that was left of Erin Mitchell. An accident that now looked incredibly full of guilt. I tried talking to her as though this would somehow help, somehow make it better or bring her back—but this was only making things worse. In this small, terrible moment, the world let go from around me and everything slowed down. A snail’s pace, a pigeon’s brain. The world held me at my own mercy as I begged for forgiveness from something I couldn’t quite escape from.

The second major mistake I made was trying to stop the blood. Towels, as many as I could hold. Running from the upstairs, over her freshly fallen body, back to the first-floor landing. White clean linen that once smelled strongly of bleached soap and floral powder. I would have to throw them all away—if I somehow managed to get away with this. Lord knows I was trying… I pressed them into the quickly drying puddles, watching them absorb the color as it crawled across like coffee on a wet paper towel. The blood seeped and stained everything it touched. The more I tried wiping, the tighter it clung—my fingernails, my forearms, my bracelets, further imbedding into the lines of my well-worn hands.

Blood was everywhere.

Everywhere I touched.

I had a perfectly rounded thumbprint, squarely placed in the center of my chest, I must have grabbed my pendant in worry at some point during this whole ordeal. Even that hesitated to be wiped off. I would have to bleach myself.

I stared in concern. My blood-stained hands gripping tight to the half-used bottle of bleach. There wasn’t enough. My heel prints, my foot prints, hell, even my hand prints engraved themselves onto every surface of the floor, leading up the stairs where I myself almost slipped and fell, exactly as she had, maybe that would be the undoing of me, the best outcome for this sort of scenario.

I had smeared her blood all along the handrails, cabinet doors, the linen closet, the tub handles. It was embedded in the bath mat and all along the bright, white inch-by-inch tiled floor—which was a selling point for guests, the pristine, vintage, homey feel of my bed- and-breakfast. The best in town. This surely would sour reviews.

I stared at my reflection on the fireplace doors, muddled and faded, sure blood was absolutely caked in my hair. I was wholly unsure how things had gotten so bad, but alas, they were.

I kept replaying it, trying to find the moment when I could have made a different choice, a better decision—and there it lie. There was nothing, absolutely nothing I could have done. So why didn’t I call police? Why hadn’t I placed a closed sign on the front door, why had I not calmly called incoming guests and told them of an emergency departure? I only had myself to blame—for now, hours later, this is my confession, it wasn’t just that blood had just been all over, it wasn’t that there was a mess I couldn’t fix—it was, just this one—that I believed, if even for a second, that I could stop it once it began.

You see, the blood is still trickling down, somewhere in this house, I am sure of it. The walls feel much tighter than they had this morning. Suffocating, drowning.

Every sharp, normal noise is filling my ears with a static I can never quiet.

The house is too clean, too tidy, too normal—for all the havoc that just occurred.

Erin Mitchell is gone. Like she never existed—and that saddens me some.

The towels are gone, the floors shine so plainly that one could eat from them. The mirror and the picture frames and the fire-place—they all reflect back what should be my beaming, smiling face—but instead, a shell of myself remains, the eyes look darker, more gaunt, more hollow. My lips, more terse, my skin, more sallow. My dress pressed and triple cleaned. It is as though I myself am the one who had died, and even now, as my third guest of the morning checks in, the bell signaling their arrival and the door shedding new light on the floors. I wonder if it is my mind playing tricks on me—the faint outline of dried blood still appears, visible—a screaming beacon of a life no more.

I did not mean for there to be so much blood, but in saying that, I have to realize, that meaning, no matter how well intended, does not wash anything away, no matter how much water is used.