Red Stains

The stains. On her sweater, her jeans. In her hair, on her hands, across her face. The deep redness smeared all over.

Not all the stains came out today. I don’t know if they ever will.

I know something is off when she calls. She never calls.

“You need to come to the house. To Mom and Dad’s,” she says. Her voice is steady and even, as usual. But she sounds bland, emotionless, like a part of her soul has been ripped away.

“I’m coming.” I don’t recognize my voice; it holds the same void as hers. We don’t say anything else. I wait for her to hang up but she doesn’t. There’s a lot of background noise on her end, voices in hushed whispers and voices barking orders. Rattling. Some ripping.

We stay on the phone as I drive there, not saying anything to each other. When I turn my car off, I hear a beep and glance at my phone. She has ended the call. I can see her walking out the front door, waiting for me. I get out of my car and stand in the street. I am not sure why there’s tape everywhere. Or why there are so many people. After a minute or so, someone holds up the tape and motions for me to come.

Her red-rimmed eyes confirm what I already know, but the stains confuse me. On her sweater, her jeans. In her hair, on her hands, across her face. The deep redness smeared all over.

She chews on the inside of her bottom lip. My brows furrow as I begin to work it all out. There are some large black bags to the right, each zipped tightly shut. I count them quickly — and count them again. And again. Nine. There are nine bags. I feel an odd lump at the back of my throat.

“All of them?” It’s more of a statement than a question. My mouth has gone dry and my voice came out as a small croak.

“Yes.” She sounds the same as she did on the phone. I begin to wonder how long she has been here, how much she has cried. After a moment, I make up my mind.

“I want to see.” A pained look flits over her face but she doesn’t argue. She goes back in the house and returns a few moments later with a gloved man. I’m not sure who this person is; at this point I don’t care. I just want someone to show me the bags. I have to see for myself.

It’s all a blur. Every bag is the same; the bodies are different but each one is full of torn clothes and dark stains. I feel the tears flowing freely as we move from one bag to the next. I make no effort to stop them. The man is opening the smallest bag. I cannot look more than a few seconds. My tears turn to sobs and I fall to the ground, no longer able to stand. And she is there, holding me.

Through my sobs I make out “black market” and “missing organs.” It all makes sense now. The tape, the gloves, the stretcher, the news van, the people... I tell myself to stop crying but I can’t. I need to be strong. Strong for her. For my sister. And then I remember the bags and sob harder.

I don’t know how long we are there. I am aware of people around me moving and talking but I don’t care. Nothing else matters right now. Eventually, I calm down and simply let the tears come quietly. The news van is gone; so is the stretcher. The bags are still there. I feel another pair of arms wrap around me. I look up and begin sobbing again. Hard. She is crying too. My sister lets her take me out of her arms.

I cry until I can’t cry anymore. There’s nothing left to let out. My throat feels raw and my head is pounding. The bags are gone. So are most of the people. A few close friends and our Pastors stand a few feet away.

I glance around for my sister and find her on the porch. She has her knees tucked to her chest and arms wrapped around her legs. She is gripping her arms so hard her knuckles are white but her eyes are dry. A police officer is sitting next to her with a little book. She is staring at her shoes. He asks her a question and quickly writes down her response. Her eyes do not move from her shoes.

She hasn’t changed her clothes. The stains are still there. On her sweater, her jeans. In her hair, on her hands, across her face. The deep redness smeared all over. On her heart. On mine.

I look up at the pink and orange clouds in the sky. They’re too pretty for today — it’s as if the world is mocking us.

I glance at my sister and notice the small squeeze the officer gives her shoulder before standing up. She looks at me and gives me a weak smile that does not reach her eyes. It’s just her and me, now. We don’t really have any more relatives.

I look at the sky again. And at the people around us. I feel utterly exhausted, spent; too tired to mourn anymore today. My friend helps me up and embraces me. I feel almost okay. And comforted. Here in my friend’s arms.

And I think that maybe, just maybe, we’ll get the stains out. Maybe not today, but it’ll happen.

The Stains.

On her sweater, her jeans. In her hair, on her hands, across her face. The deep redness smeared all over. On her heart. On mine.

Gone.