Laura nearly scrubbed her hands raw. She thought it was a joke, a metaphor, but she really could still see blood on her hands long after anyone else would tell her they were clean. In the end, the water ran clear, and she had to give up.

     At least she could still change her gown to one that wouldn’t have bloody stains. She was half settled; her hands were steady, even if her mind wasn’t, when she spotted her gloves. Her dark dress might be saved… but not the pale gloves. All she could do was reluctantly throw them onto the fireplace and watch them burn. It was then she reached for her handkerchief, and found it missing.

                                      MERDE. 

     She just hoped it was buried in the dirt somewhere, vanished, rather than anywhere in sight.