He’d lie awake, chilled from the cold sweats that troubled his infrequent dozing. The body still lay on his kitchen floor. No matter how many times he went to make sure it was really gone as soon as he closed his eyes his mind told him it was still there. He could no longer sleep.
He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. The water ran off bright red, he screamed, jarring himself back to life and back to the swirling clear liquid running down the drain. He could not feel clean. He turned on the shower to full hot then stepped out of his clothes. They were still sticky with blood even though what he had been wearing was buried —in the kitchen— along with the body. He scrubbed again, it was his fourth shower since he returned, the bottom of his bathtub was caked with mud and blood and hair and nothing, two bottles of bleach could not stop it from coming back.
He used the barbecue brush to scrub off the evidence again. This time the water ran red for real as layers of skin peeled off his body. The blistering heat numbed the pain by the shear volume of sensory recepticles it overloaded, still he scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed.