Ted.

Trigger Warning gore, death, blood

Blood thickens as it sits. It changes. People don’t really talk about that, but it does. It congeals, turning into something unnatural—thicker than water, stickier than it should be. Even in a pool, the surface tightens, forming a thin membrane like old paint left to dry. It waits, stretched and quivering, ready to break at the slightest touch.

Globs of it cling to the cupboards, the light blue walls, the shitty off-white linoleum. A Pollock painting in rust and violence. It drips slow, like syrup, leaving faint trails where gravity insists on pulling it down. The smell—copper and something deeper, something meaty—has sunk into the walls, into the cracks between tiles. I don’t even know where to start.

Paper towels tear under the weight of it. They disintegrate, useless, leaving behind shredded remnants stained deep red. The edges of the puddles congeal, thick and sticky, while the center remains wet, almost pulsing. A towel might do the trick, but it’ll be ruined. A casualty of the night.

I tie my shaggy red hair into a messy ponytail, my fingers tacky with sweat and something else. My reflection in the dark window is blurred, a smudged painting of a woman who has been through something she shouldn’t have. Blue eyes too wide. Skin too pale. Lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. My pajamas cling, damp and stained at the knees. The smell is unbearable—like pennies left in the rain, but deeper. Earthier.

No one ever talks about the cleanup.

In movies, the bodies just disappear, neatly erased from existence. But it’s never that easy. This sticks. It seeps into everything. Under your nails, into the fine lines of your skin. The smell lingers, thick and sickly, even when the blood is gone. The thought makes my stomach turn.

I grab the bleach from under the sink. The plastic bottle is cold, impersonal. This is going to take all night.

Then—the lights cut through the dark.

Headlights sweep across the window, long beams slicing the blackness apart before vanishing. A car door slams. Mom is here. Thank Goddess.

I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until I let it out, a shaking, uneven thing. The back door creaks as I pull it open. The night stares back at me, hollow and watching. Cold air rushes in, carrying the scent of damp leaves and something else, something faint, just beneath the surface.

Mom steps into the dim porch light, bundled in her thick purple coat, her breath curling in the air like smoke. Her brown waves tumble over her shoulders, her face drawn tight in an expression I’ve seen too many times before.

She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate. Just walks past me into the kitchen.

The smell hits her immediately, but she doesn’t react. Instead, she surveys the mess, nods once, then shrugs off her coat, dropping it onto the chair like this is just another chore. She pulls out gloves—thick yellow ones, the kind meant for washing dishes—and slides them on with a practiced ease.

She picks up a towel, then the bleach.

"Let’s get started," she says, and that’s that.

For the next hour, we work in silence. The quiet stretches, long and heavy, filled only with the rhythmic sounds of scrubbing, the rustle of paper towels, the soft splat of Clorox wipes hitting the trash. The chemical scent burns my nose, but it’s better than the alternative.

Mom breaks the silence first.

"Where is he?"

I pause, my arms aching, my back tight from crouching too long. The question hangs there.

I don’t know.

That’s the strangest part, isn’t it?

A laugh bubbles up, dry and humorless, escaping before I can stop it. My head tilts back against the wall, exhaustion weighing me down.

"Ted was just protecting you," Mom says, her voice even, measured.

I nod. Then shake my head. Then sigh.

"Mom?"

She looks at me.

"Thanks for helping clean."

She considers that, then nods. "Ted always cared about you. Brandon was a drunk. He didn’t like you two together."

"I dumped him," I mutter, rubbing my temples. "Right before Ted—" I swallow hard. "Before he tore him apart. Brandon got mad. He picked up a beer bottle. He was going to hit me. I mean, he would have, but then Ted..."

Silence again.

I went to therapy. After the incident at college. Ted has been... quiet, mostly. Lurking but restrained.

Mom exhales slowly. "Hun, we do need to know what Ted did with the body."

She says it the way someone might mention taking out the trash. Practical. Routine.

It’s late. Two in the morning, maybe later. My body aches, exhaustion creeping in like a slow tide. I gather the stained towels, dragging myself to the basement. Each step creaks beneath my weight, the house settling, shifting, watching.

The washer groans to life, water rushing in, drowning the evidence.

Then—

The lights flicker.

The shadows deepen, pooling unnaturally in the farthest corner. The air thickens. Something shifts in the dark.

The faint sound of buzzing drifts over the hum of the washer.

Low. Insistent. Like flies circling something long dead.

A voice, thick and gasping, snakes through the stillness.

"He’s swimming with the fishes now. Tell your mom not to worry."

A pause.

Then, quieter, amused—"I got his keys. Gonna move his car."

A shape unwinds from the shadows, something almost man-shaped but wrong in ways the brain refuses to process. The buzzing follows it as it recedes into the dark.

I exhale.

"I think the kitchen is clean now," I mutter, more to myself than anything. My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else.

No answer.

Just silence.

Upstairs, Mom ties off the garbage bag. Brandon’s car engine sputters to life outside.

Her body stiffens, shoulders tensing.

"It’s Ted," I say.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, staring at nothing.

"What’s he doing?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"He said he was moving Brandon’s car." A pause. "He also said he’s swimming with the fishes now."

A slow nod.

"Then, I guess that’s handled."

I grab the trash bag. We should burn it. The burn barrel in the backyard is ready, waiting.

Mom thinks the same. She pulls open the junk drawer, fingers closing around a box of matches.

"Let’s get this done," she murmurs, stepping over the freshly scrubbed floor.

I follow, garbage bag swinging in my grip, as the night outside stretches open, endless and waiting.

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