The gray meat, devoid of blood, taunted Micah when he entered the room, immediately freezing him seeing it on his shiny hardwood floor, reflecting its image in the sheen. The end, where the wrist should’ve been connected, glistened with fading puce.
“Karissa!” he shrieked.
She entered the room, a smirk creased her lips seeing his revulsion. Whatever he was fixed on, she didn’t care. It was always something, from a muddy footprint to a wine ring on the coffee table. What did it matter anyway? Everything was cleanable, nothing was exempt from being washed.
She stopped, following his gaze. Her eyes widened at the unexpectedness of a dismembered hand laying palm up on the floor.
“What did you do?” Micah demanded.
“Me?” she said defensively.
“It wasn’t me. You went out last night, and it wasn’t there when I went to bed.”
She shook her head, searching through her memories, but found none which involved dismemberment.
“I know what we can do,” Karissa said, handing him a blanket that had been draped over the back of the sofa. “We have to get rid of it.” She shook the blanket. “Come on, take it already.”
Hand tremoring, he took it, knowing she’d never give him any explanations. If he asked, she would dismiss him, as she always did, and like the way she had the night before when he’d asked her not to go out on the town.
She pinched it, swinging the hand into the blanket without another thought.
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