Free Forsaken by R.M. Gilmore

and take you.” I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the wall. Get up.
    I huffed and pushed my way up the wall. Death sounded scary and giving up wasn’t really my thing, so it looked as though for the moment I had chosen the fight. No one had been in Tatum’s house since she’d left it to meet me at LAX for our flight to New Orleans. It explained why everything was off and locked tight. The smell became musty and pungent the closer I got to the kitchen.
    I followed my nose to the sink where I found a deli cup with a lid sitting in the center. The smell was foul and almost turned my stomach. I puffed out air and peeled the lid off the cup. A rank smell I could only associate with the scent of an old pad, mid-cycle, in August heat for three days wafted up my nose, and jerked-off my gag reflex.
    “Ah!” My face scrunched automatically and I shoved the lid back on the container, spilling it in the process. I pulled my shirt over my nose and looked over the edge of the sink into the blood-soaked basin. “Why the fuck is there a cup of blood in your sink, weirdo?” I asked my friend who may or may not have been able to hear me. She didn’t answer anyway.
    I thought about washing it down, then thought again. If the cops were coming for me they’d surely check out her house eventually. My fingerprints on a cup of blood in her sink might appear fishy, no matter how innocent that particular aspect of her death may have been.
    “Wash it, dummy.” I couldn’t quite tell if it was Tatum I heard or my own head telling me what to do, but I listened.
    I turned on the sink as hot as I could make it. “Why is there blood in here in the first place?” I grumbled and sudsed up a paper towel—no need to muck up a perfectly non-incriminating, highly absorbent sponge—and scrubbed at the sink until my fingers wrinkled.
    The cup was clean when I shoved it to the bottom of the trashcan. I didn’t pull the bag out; it needed to look like no one had been in the house fucking around. I dried off the counter with yet another paper towel. The kitchen wasn’t spotless, but there was no stinky, rancid blood to be found. Turning off the kitchen light, I went to the half-bath just off the main hallway. One by one, I flushed the bloody pick-a-size towels. It was extensive, but I didn’t have room for failure. With all the precaution over beasties, it was easy to overlook the everyday dangers. Like multiple homicide charges.
    When all traces of me in the house were gone, I took one last tour, ending up in Tatum’s bedroom. It smelled like her. I closed my eyes and tried to bring up a memory, any memory of her and me in that house. Nothing specific came to mind and it hurt my heart. My head was so full of so many other things it felt like my life was getting lost in the mess.
    My girl would never be back. It was the last time I’d stand in that room. As I stood there, one memory came through: the last time I’d stood alone in the dark in Tatum’s bedroom. Someone had come in and taken her, leaving the room a mess and scaring the shit out of me. I thought that was the worst that could happen. It was the worst thing to happen to me in my adult life, until I walked into a little voodoo shop on a random New Orleans street.
    “Bye,” I said and lifted my hand a bit for a wave.
    I didn’t know what I was saying bye to, but it felt good to finally say it and actually mean it. I wanted to stay, to climb into her fluffy bed and sleep for days. Knowing my luck, I’d be caught in bed like Goldie Locks. Only my bear would carry a gun and likely a warrant.
    When I got to the door, I hesitated. I stopped for just a moment and closed my eyes. Letting my breaths come slowly, I tried to open myself up, tried to walk through the door Lupe had opened, but only for one last grasp at the astral straw.
    “If you’re ever going to help me, please do it now. I’m here. I’m listening.” I talked to Tatum and hoped nothing else answered.
    I waited