Free Confession by Carey Baldwin

her saliva spraying him in the face. “You’re not doing it right.”
    â€œSorry.” Again, best to be professional, but he cringed at the thought of the germs now saturating the air he breathed. When he thumped the veins in Wilhelmina’s antecubital area, she squirmed, making his job more difficult. Her veins ran beneath her skin like thick ropes, rolling away from his touch, and he knew she was the sort who would complain if he didn’t hit pay dirt on the first try. So he took his time, which should have made her grateful, but had the opposite effect instead. By now, she was practically snarling at him.
    Perhaps a little small talk would help her relax, put her in a more friendly frame of mind. “Is Wilhelmina a family name?”
    â€œKeep your flirtatious remarks to yourself, young man. I’m here to get my blood drawn, not start a relationship.”
    His face flushed. She was making fun of him. “I was only trying to be polite.”
    â€œI don’t mind a little conversation, in fact I enjoy it, but let’s stick to the news or weather. I don’t like personal questions.”
    Leaning forward, he thrust his tongue out between his lips, carefully studying her veins, somehow keeping his composure in the face of her imperious attitude. Finally, he thought he’d found a less roly-­poly target. He lifted the venipuncture needle, already encased in its hub, with the purple-­top tube in go position. He looked up and smiled at her, signaling the impending poke.
    â€œD’ya hear they arrested that monster—­the Saint?” Her tone let him know she found the whole story titillating. This was the type of conversation she enjoyed.
    He blinked hard, imagining her lips moving in reverse, and her words being sucked back inside her mouth. If no one said them aloud, maybe they weren’t true. Maybe the police hadn’t arrested anyone at all. Returning his focus to her veins, he said nothing.
    â€œI’m telling you they caught the Saint,” she repeated just as he pushed the long flat needle into a vein.
    His hands started to shake. “No. They didn’t.”
    â€œOh, but they did.”
    His fingers fumbled. Sweat stung his eyes. His vision blurred, and he couldn’t pop the needle into the vacutainer.
    â€œTurns out it’s that illegitimate Jericho brother—­Dante, and he confessed. Do you believe it?”
    â€œNo!” His hand seized, plunging the needle deeper. He jerked his arm back, and the needle ripped her skin before flying across the room. The empty purple-­top vacutainer rolled onto the floor between his feet.
    â€œYou miserable little fool! Look what you did!”
    Big fat drops of watery purple blood oozed down her forearm and dripped onto his gloved hands. Dripped onto his trousers—­soiling them over the fly. “I’m sorry. It was an accident,” he whispered hoarsely.
    â€œYou stupid, stupid boy.”
    Lazy, dirty boy. You’re a scourge.
    Expecting her fists to rain down on him, he protected his head.
    Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes went so wide he could see white all the way around her irises.
    â€œI can clean up my mess.” He grabbed some gauze and swiped at the blood on her arm, but she knocked his hand away.
    â€œI’m going to have to report you.”
    Dirty boy! Wait until I tell the other Sisters what you did.
    â€œNo, please don’t tell anyone . . . I’ll lose my job.” His voice sounded weak, plaintive. He was good with the needle. He knew exactly where and how hard to poke it in. It was all her fault for not holding still. He got his needle in the vein, but she wouldn’t be still, she wouldn’t shut up. She’d unmanned him with her nasty remarks. His eyes flicked to his pants, wet with blood and ruined. He crossed his hands over the wet spot. “I’ll clean up my mess. I promise, Sister.”
    â€œAre you a