Drabbel: The Trail

In this world of white walls, white ceilings, and white floors, the specks of blood were like neon. Wet against the slick linoleum a path of dots lead on: here a splattering; now it’s clean—no, one little clue leads me on; here is a threshold, a doorknob darkened by red smears. A window’s in the door, a wire mesh-caught within the crystal glass. It’s dark where the blood leads me, so dark behind the door. From my pocket, I bring out the key and clasp its cold metal in my palm. Forever on, I’m ever searching for the truth.