by Elizabeth Arlen

Blood was everywhere. Puddles of blood. Handprints on the wall. Marks from where she'd slipped in her own blood. A trail to the kitchen from the dining room of blood.

She stared at it in sheer delight, down on her hands and knees. Her hair was matted with blood from the times she'd run her fingers through it. Blood still poured from her wrists onto the pristine white tile floor. She smeared it around, drawing pictures on the floor. She wanted the red colour to be everywhere. She slid fully onto the floor and rolled around in it. She could smell it, the still-warm blood seeping into her skin, hair and clothing.

A present for him. The only one who'd ever loved her. He'd taken care of her, bought her nice things, made love to her. They'd run away together and found a home together. There was nothing she could give him but her blood. But he could have it. He could have it all. She would give all she had for him; everything.

She felt dizzy now. The blood flowing out of her arms (two or four?) was still dripping onto the floor and she was pleasantly numb. She thought briefly of standing up, but was afraid to slip and fall. And if she was just going to fall again, why get up in the first place? So she lay there, breathing the coppery air. The scent of blood hung like mist in the air. When she opened her mouth she could taste it. It was everywhere. Everywhere…

He would be home soon. Soon he would walk through the front door and call for her as he always did. He would call for her and getting no reply would go to the living room. Then the dining room and the kitchen, where he would find his present. His lovely, red present. Just for him.

It had been so long since she had placed razor to skin to produce this mess, his present. A black would was invading the space of her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the clouds from her vision, but to no avail. The world was fading from view. Then came a time when she couldn't keep her eyes open anymore, so she let them fall shut and went to sleep.

He came home not long after. He put his briefcase down by the door and called for her. When he heard no response, he went to the living room, he called for her again. He wanted her that night; after a long day of work, he longed for her soft skin and lips, he wanted to feel her long hair slip through his fingers. He wanted all that, and other things…

He called for her again. When he got no answer, he walked into the dining room. His shoe slipped from underneath him and he grabbed onto the table for support. Cursing, he looked down and saw a red streak where he'd slipped. He called for her again. He rushed into the kitchen and halted at the sight.

There she was on the floor, lying on her back, her arms spread out and her legs spread wide. The stench of the blood was unbelievable. He wanted to throw up, and covered his mouth with his hand.

"God, why?" Then he looked up and he saw the refridgerator door. There he found the answer to his question, a message written in her blood.

Because you fucked me, Daddy.

The End

AN: Thank you so much for reading my one shot, "Because". I will stick to my policy and tell you all that if you read and review I will read and review one of your stories as well (and if I like it, more than one). This does take me awhile, because I have two accounts and a long list to read, but I will indeed do it. And if you're interested, I have a short explanation of what this story was originally about before I finished it. Thank you again!

Lizzie Arlen

What's funny is when I started writing my superly awesome super short story, it had a completely different ending that had nothing to do with child abuse and it sort of evolved into this. Originally, I was writing the part of the girl very ambiguously with just 'she's so in the end it could be two people. The father was going to come home to find his 4 year old daughter playing in the blood, which she believed to be finger paint as her mother was dying and eventually dies. Somehow it got formed into this, which I'm not entirely sure how that happened. I like to blame everything on music and I was at Matt's piano concert that night, so maybe piano music changed my mind. That's part of the wonderfulness of non structured writing. It can be anything I want it to be. Maybe it started out as one thing and then mutated and mutated and turned out to be something quite different.