There is dry, black blood caked under her fingernails. There are streaks of red that coat her long fingers. Her cardigan is splattered with the deep warm liquid, and it won't come off no matter how many times she scrubs it or scrapes at it with a rock by the side of the road.

When she sees water for the first time in days, it's a river, and it makes her knees feel weak and unstable. She stumbles to the riverside and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs at her hands and her clothes until she can no longer feel the blood there, digging into her skin like it's alive with a mind of its own. Like the mind it once kept living is still there with it, seeking revenge.

Then she drinks. Cups her hands and splashes the water to her mouth over and over again. The water feels cool and beautiful as it trickles down her dry throat. 

Then she wades in and takes a deep breath and ducks her head underwater until her lungs feel like they're about to burst, because the cool water embracing her feels almost like a way out. Like release. She wants to stay down there forever, but pure animal instinct forces her to resurface. She hates that. She hates it all.

And the worst thing is that the blade is still with her. It's sitting by the river now, almost blocked from view by the tall grass, but there. Always there. And she knows that the moment she leaves this river she will pick it up again and clutch it so tightly that her knuckles turn white, just like she's done for days, because whenever she tries to will herself to let it go-to throw it as far as she can into the distance so that she never ever sees it again-her hand muscles stop working and her fingers refuse to budge.

She deserves it. She does. Of course, she does. She deserves to carry this blade with her for the rest of her life and never forget how the blade felt in her hand as it sunk into flesh and bone. Or the screams. Or the panic.

So she does it again as she wades out of the river. Picks it up by the hilt in trembling hands and stumbles on. Away from the river. Onward.