Prewash

I found the blood in the sink again. Not fresh—never fresh. Thick, dark, clotted like guilt under fingernails.

It didn’t alarm me this time. I just nudged the sponge aside and turned on the hot water. It’s easier when the steam blurs the reflection.

Mismatched cups with bite marks. Forks bent inward. One plate has a single word carved into it—“BEFORE.”

I wash them anyway. Carefully. Like ritual. Like penance. One scrub for each unanswered call.

The Meat Worm doesn’t speak. Not out loud. But I hear it breathing through the drain—slow and wet, like it’s learning to whistle through its teeth.

It doesn’t kill quickly. It unbuttons people. From the inside.

I remember what Jeremy looked like before he stopped eating solids.

Tonight it was thicker. The blood. Older. It tasted like regret in the air.

I told myself again it could be rust. Maybe old pipe lining. Maybe some raccoon in the walls finally gave up.

Maybe.

But I saw the dish towel twitch.

And I kept washing.

The sponge slipped. My knuckle opened like a quiet apology.

The drain gurgled once. Then sighed.

I didn’t bandage it.

Just rinsed the plate again.

Twelve more to go.

Then I can go to bed.

Then I can forget whose hand that used to be.

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