Sand and Gloves

    Short story.

    Pulling the gloves up over my fingers, I snapped the plastic above my wrists so they fit snuggly. The dust inside the gloves clung to my sweaty hands, causing me to flex my fingers repeatedly. My entire body felt sticky with sweat and I wiped away the beads currently rolling down my forehead. As I bent down onto my knees I held my breath, preventing the noxious fumes coming up from the floor to enter my lungs. Grabbing the large sponge I had resting on the counter above me, I began spreading the chemical liquid out across the floor. The sting of bleach made my eyes water and I held in the urge to wipe at my eyes. Instead, I continued to work at the stain that was coating the linoleum floor I knelt on.

      I thought about everything I’d just done. The body of the man I’d just killed lay on a poka-dotted shower curtain behind me. Taunting me with his still open eyes. They were glazed over, the wrinkles on his face still contorted around his angry mouth. His crooked smile still echoing the words he’d been  yelling at me minutes ago. I refocused on the blood stain in front of me. Its red tint now fading as the sponge soaked it up and the bleach washed it away. I could still make out my reflection in what remained of the blood though. My eyes looked baggy and tired, my mouth was set into a deep frown. There was so much evidence to get rid of. I wasn’t sure if I’d get away with what I’d done.  Annoyance made me grip the sponge hard, sending out a slush of bleach and blood.

     I knew I should have called the cops. I should have explained what happened, what I’d had no choice but to do. The scent of bleach rolled over my senses again – it was too late. There was no way I could explain my way out of this. I was no longer the victim. They’d call me a murderer. They’d lock me away until I rotted and lost all hope. I dared a glance back at the man’s body. He lay in the same awkward pose I’d left him in when I’d dragged him onto the curtain. The wound on his bald head was still fresh. The memory of me striking him with the cooking pan replayed over in my head and I shuttered. The wound was deep and I could just see the pale white of his skull through the tear the pan had made through his flesh. He had been alive just thirty minutes ago. Standing in front of the stove, a smug smile playing across his wicked face as he yelled at me. Rage swelled through me again and I gritted my teeth. I was glad he was dead now.

       Looking back at the sponge, I saw that the puddle of blood his bashed head had left was finally gone. I tossed the sponge into the garbage and lifted out the bag. Eyeing the house over for any evidence I missed, I pushed the bloody cooking pan into the bag with the sponge. I had my plan now. Walking out of the house, I threw the garbage bag into the back seat of the man’s car. I already had the keys to it safely tucked away in my pocket. The heat outside was unbearable and I felt a fresh coating of sweat trickle out of my pores to cover my face. I was grateful this house was on a bare stretch of desert road. The small ranch style house stuck out from its environment of dry rust colored sand. I breathed in slowly, preparing myself for what had to be done. Quickly, I walked back into the house and opened a draw in the kitchen counter, still wearing my gloves I picked up a box of cigarettes and a lighter. Plucking a single cigarette out of the box, I stuck it between my teeth and strolled over to the small living room where the man’s body lay. There was a tiny purple couch with adjoining coffee table in front of it, along with an old TV set into the wall. The house was sparsely decorated. Lighting the cigarette, I took a few small drags of it as I stared down at the body.

      Sighing heavily, I set the still lit cigarette down on an ash tray before crouching next to the man’s body. I made sure the wound on his head had stopped bleeding before I stuck my arms under his and carefully lifted him to his feet. He was much heavier than me and my knees buckled at the weight. Checking out the ceiling, I noted where the exposed wooden beams ended. Carefully, I dragged the man to the couch, sitting his body down right below where one of the beams passed over. Next, I lifted the ash tray and set it on the couch next to him, making sure the tip of the still smoking cigarette pressed right against the cheap fabric of the couch. Stepping away, I watched to see if my plan would work. Within a few seconds the fire on the tip of the cigarette began to spread out over the first cushion of the couch, then without warning the small flames burst into a roaring fire, quickly beginning to consume the whole couch. Not wasting a second, I snatched up the bloody shower curtain and made my way outside to the car. After stuffing the curtain into the garbage bag along with my now discarded gloves, I pulled out of the sand driveway and onto the road. Still wanting to make sure everything went as planned, I waited. Watching the house from the safety of the car.                         

     After a few minutes that felt like an eternity the roof of the house began to billow smoke. My hands clenched the steering wheel as I watched the fire spread over the home. I wasn’t worried about the smoke attracting any attention. There was no one around for miles, so by the time anyone came out to bring this house its mail there would be nothing left but rubble. The heat my body felt disappeared and was replaced with a haunted goose bumps spreading across my skin as I watched what evidence remained turn to ash. I would find different places along the dusty sand trenches on the side of the road to bury what evidence remained in the garbage bag next to me. My crime had been erased – for now. I would use the time I had to get as far away as I could. I could let time wash away all the many mistakes I had made at that house. The walls that contained so many screams would be burned away, reborn as ash to line this sandy domain. Pressing my foot down on the gas, I began driving down the road. I had a clean slate now, and I wouldn’t let that go to waste.

Copyright 2015 Property of Julia R.Y.