I stopped at a diner on the way back. It was in the middle of nowhere. I walked directly into the restroom before anyone could notice the blood on my hands. Looking into the mirror I realized some of the red, almost pink, liquid had splashed up onto my face as well. Good thing I had brought an extra shirt.
I dumped the blooded one in a trashcan and started washing my hands and face.
Lots of soap.
I hate blood.
I don’t mind the act, but I hate the mess. If it wasn’t such good money and if I didn’t have such a talent for it, I probably wouldn’t do it.
Shit, she wasn’t supposed to be there.
I put on the clean shirt, looked myself in the eyes once more.
I always said that I would stop when I couldn’t look myself in the eyes anymore. It was getting harder.
The place had a good chicken pot pie.