Maisie
I lunged for the tissues and the first pull tore the paper in half. I yanked over and over again, until the dispenser stuttered and the floor around my feet was littered with them.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I pressed the tissues to my face and scrubbed.
But the second the blood smeared across my cheek, the bathroom disappeared. Suddenly, it wasn't pig's blood. It was thicker, hotter, pouring down my neck, my face, my hair. It was sliding into my clothes like it did on that cliff.
Gruer often said I needed therapy. But I didn't think it was necessary. I could stand the sight of blood just fine. Could spill it just fine. But certain things triggered me. And this was one of them.
I scrubbed the blood until I ripped my skin, and I didn't still feel clean.
The sound of a pop echoed behind me, and I heard Gruer's voice. "Why does it stink like a pig's sty in here?"
I swiveled. "What are you doing here--"
