A sharp, ragged gasp tears out of him, then he scrambles backward, his boots squeaking against the blood-soaked linoleum. He kicks his feet like he's trying to get away from what he's done.
The next sound that comes out of him is low and broken, as he hits the shelf behind him. It shakes slightly, making a few boxes of tissues fall forward, landing next to Mamá’s pale face.
"Fuck," the man grits out, and I swear it sounds like he's crying.
I watch as he tries to stand, his boots slipping in the blood, one hand grabbing at the shelf beside him for balance. He goes down on one knee before he gets upright, his movements slow and clumsy, dropping the knife in the process. There’s nothing coordinated about any of it.
He finally straightens up and sways slightly, his head turning as his blown-out eyes sweep the wreckage around him. The shelves. The floor. My mother.
Then he stills.
He looks down at something near his feet, then he bends down and picks it up.
A soda can?
Most of the red color has been scratched off, and it’s dented along one side.
His fingers curl around the metal, and the fluorescent light catches the exposed aluminum, throwing off a thin gleam across the ceiling, and I can’t look away from it.
I don’t see anything else.
Just the can.
The man’s bloody fingers wrap around it like it's something precious, something worth saving, and I watch as a single drop of blood forms at the tip of his pinky finger. It hangs there for a moment, trembling, catching the light the same way the can does.
Then it falls, sticky and wet, hitting the floor with a soft tap.
And I fall apart.
The scream tears out of me from somewhere so deep and so primal that I don't recognize the sound as mine, and the man lurches backward, his blown-out eyes finding me for one terrible second across the wreckage of my parents' pharmacy.
I expect him to attack me too, but instead he runs.
He hits the front door hard, shoulder first, and it swings open, letting in a blast of cold night air. He stops. Just for a moment—one foot in, one foot out—and when he looks back, his voice comes out wrong. High and thin.
"I'm sorry."
He pauses like he’s going to say something else, and for one horrible second I think he's coming back. Then the sirens echo in the distance. They’re faint and far away, but they’re growing. The man’s body jerks.
Tck. Tck.Tck.
Something on him rattles with the movement.
He runs and the door falls shut behind him, his boots slap fast on the pavement outside, and then there's nothing.
The silence is the loudest thing I've ever heard. It pounds in my ears with each step.
My legs are shaking so badly I can feel it in my teeth.
I come to a stop next to Mamá’s body, and my foot slides out from under me. The ground comes up, my knee connecting hard with the floor, but I don’t feel anything.
"Mamá?" I grab her hand. It's warm. "Mamá, please. Please look at me."
She doesn't move.
She just stares up at the ceiling with hollow, blank eyes.
Reaching out, I shift her weight toward me, pulling her into my lap. Her skin pulls open along her side, exposing the red, raw muscle beneath.
