The water in the porcelain sink runs clear. I can still feel it: the sin…the blood…on my hands.
It had to be done, Oscar had to die. That monster was wearing his skin. It laughed the same, smiled the same, talked, walked, acted the same. But I know better, it was all wrong. Something was always off. Maybe it changed the way he used to style his hair, a chuckle instead of a snicker. It was never right.
That wasn’t Oscar. Its blood stained my hands; I can still feel it. It even bled like a real person too.
Scrubbing, scrubbing, scratching.
I’m going to scrub them raw if I don’t stop now. But I can still feel it, the deep crimson staining the same hands I put together in prayer. The Lord will forgive me. He knows it must be done.
For a purer world, Oscar had to die. An earlier him would understand, but that demon I buried in the forest wept for clarity. It would have been foolish of me to hesitate; it was all lies so that monster could keep wearing the face of my friend.
I’ll be sad for a while. People will ask “Where’s Oscar?” and I’ll have to act like I’m not aware of the corpse buried in the forest. Its disguise was convincing; it even cried like a real person. But I know better than to be tricked.
The water runs clear. It has been clear for the past 7 minutes. I can feel the itching of blood underneath my skin. It’s fine enough. My hands will go raw if I keep cleaning them. A cup of jasmine tea will clear my mind. I push off the faucet, my hands still itching to be cleaned more, or maybe they’re begging to have a break. They itch all the same, I suppose.
I stumble down into my kitchen. The black kettle on the burner already. I turn the knob until the burner clicks, clicks, crackles lit. I open my hickory cabinets, pulling out my assortment of tea leaves, different scents weaved together. Ginger, chamomile, Oscar’s favorite, mint, merlot, jasmine.
Tea leaves stir at the bottom of my porcelain mug. Each sip I can taste more and more, covering over the metallic flavor that lingers. A red mug, matching mine, sits lonely and unused.
I should head to bed; sleep will do me some good.
The stars outside my window mock me with their shine, bragging of their purity. I once compared Oscar to them, years ago.
They’ll be gone in the morning; I won’t have to look at them.
My linen sheets only hold me tonight, and never anybody else.
◇◆◇
The pond is chilling against my legs, fish dart across and around me. I stand in the middle of it all, feet trapped. I can’t move them. My pants are stained from the mud and grime.
“Micah!” and I turned too hastily to realize what was wrong. It should’ve been obvious.
Oscar. Oscar, Oscar, Oscar. It feels bitter on my tongue to even think of shouting back. Oscar is gone, so it can’t be Oscar.
But wouldn’t it be sweet…to pretend? To pretend all is right in the world, and hyacinths don’t leech into my skin every second.
Oscar sifts through the murky water to reach me. His icy skin touches mine and I am far too soon reminded of the corpse in the forest where this very pond resides.
Oscar holds my hand steady even as I try to pull away, and dull and blank honey brown eyes meet mine.
“I’ve missed you far too much, Micah,” the smile is only teeth, baring at me like a snarl.
◇◆◇
I stir awake in my bed with a shiver. It is only a nightmare, Oscar is dead. He was long dead as soon as that monster replaced him.
Still, my bed feels too empty and cold without his lingering body heat from the early morning. I’m alright, I’ll be fine without Oscar. I must be.
My hands shake as I pull the covers off myself. The lazy morning sun beams into my eyes, forcing me to shut them in annoyance.
I can feel the blood again.
I rush out of my bed and down the hall to my restroom, tugging the faucet knobs on.
Scrubbing, scrubbing, scratching.
I need them to be clean. I can feel it again. Impure, sinful, atrocious.
The blood is there, it’s there, it’s seeping into my very soul. It needs to be gone. How can I use them to worship when I know the horrid things they’ve committed? It itches into my skin, it burns and burns, and I need to be rid of it.
Oscar once held them in his own palms.
The floral scent of my soap fills my senses, yet I can still smell the sin. The water is clear, it has been since it started flowing. I dry off my hands, harshly grabbing the hand towel to the side of the sink.
I’ll be fine. This is all fine. I need to make breakfast, no food waiting for me on the table when Oscar used to go to work. The steps creak with every shaky foot forward. The handrail grounding me before I got too lost in my mind.
The kitchen isn’t too far out of sight. This is the new normal. I can see the morning light trickling in from the window, did I leave the curtains open overnight? I was a bit distracted, so it’s possible.
There’s no Oscar to greet me with a soft smile on the lazy mornings of the weekends, no notes saying he went out for groceries. My husband was gone. It was just me, now.
But if that were true, why is Oscar sitting at the kitchen table sipping a steaming cup of coffee in a red mug?
I’ll make sure to dig the grave deeper this time.
Grace Staab is a junior at Franklin Towne Charter High School in Philadelphia. She has always been fascinated with horror and has been writing stories since she was little.
