Forensics

by R.K. West

They say that it isn’t possible to get rid of blood, for two reasons: first, it is pervasive, spreading out and soaking in, penetrating the corners and crevices, leaving tiny drops and flecks on unexpected surfaces; and second, it resists cleaning, undefeated by ordinary sprays and detergents, made even worse by bleach or ammonia. The only way to get rid of blood is with more blood. The two bloods will blend together, much the way decaf and espresso in the same cup create a single confusing beverage. Using my own blood would be counterproductive, so I must turn to one of the neighbor’s chickens, and I am surprised when this makes me feel both squeamish and guilty. As the blood drains from the headless little feathered corpse, contaminating the red-brown puddle in the kitchen, I realize, with regret, that it is not enough, and another bird must be sacrificed. The carcasses go into the trash bins, where, of course, they will be quickly discovered, but I plan to answer questions about them the same way I will answer all the other questions: "I don’t know."

6S

R.K. West lives in the Pacific Northwest, where it is damp and mossy.