Blood doesn’t come off. Not easily anyway. It’s thick, it sticks to your skin, it stains your clothes, even black. When it’s fresh, its the most striking of reds. The movies don’t do it any justice. Probably because no one would believe it, so they darken it for effect. Or maybe once movies tried realistic blood, and the audience couldn’t handle it, awakened by some caveman part of their brain knew, and was afraid  in a way a piece of fiction shouldn’t feel. Whatever. I try to wipe it from my face with the trickle from the faucet. No towels in the dispenser, and the hand dryer isn’t going to help get the goo off. Fuck! I’ve got to get it off before anyone tries to use this bathroom. I’ve jammed the door, but security would probably find it a little suspicious and it wouldn’t take much to overcome the built-in doorstop. Hopefully the don’t make rounds very often at 3 am.

So how exactly does one become covered in blood from head to toe at 3 am? Well, it’s all about the method. No one expects the petite blonde in a slinky black dress and Prada pumps to be carrying a 3 foot sword underneath her overcoat. And when the shit goes bad, the only thing that can save your ass from meeting it’s maker at the hands of trigger-happy hired thugs is plain old shock and awe. Slice a guy in two while covering everyone in a 20 foot radius with a crimson shower is a good way to do this.

I’ve got most of it off, save a little brownish maroon crust under my nails and at the roots of my hair. In the greenish subway station light, it looks no more than dirt. Hopefully that’s all anyone will see. Its a risk I have to take – I have to keep moving. There will be others.