Threads of coagulating blood stretched between Marsh’s spreading fingers. He turned toward the sink against the wall. It could never have been scrubbed in all its existence. A chip of black soap had fossilized to the porcelain, which itself looked lacquered with used motor oil. Gas fumes and phantom cigarette smoke hung so thick and pungent in the air they were almost tangible. Marsh cringed and grabbed both water knobs and turned them. A pipe bucked somewhere behind the wall and the faucet coughed up gray water into the black sink. He rubbed his hands together under the meager, freezing water flow and stared past the filth at his marred image in the curved blade of mirror still clinging to the cinder block wall in front of him. He looked down at his hands. The threads of blood were now a thick burgundy slurry. “How do like me now, Marsh?” said Stan. Turning around, oozing hands hovering before him, Marsh felt his knees almost give.
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- Release Date TBD
- Author Philip T. Bond
- Language English
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