(a fictional story, of course)
Try as he might, he couldn’t get the blood clean from the floor. He could still see it there, staring up at him, mocking him. He didn’t mean to do it, he didn’t mean to kill someone. It just happened. He panicked. The details are always foggy around what happened but he does remember the blood on the floor. He remembers struggling to sop it up and scrubbing the floor clean.
Now, even though the floor was “clean” it wasn’t in his mind. Everyone that would come over would walk over and passed it and not even notice. But he knew, he knew what was there. Maybe it was his conscience, maybe he going crazy, but he knew it was there. It became an obsession. It became a test of his will power, how long it would take him to crack.
He surprised himself, lasting until old age. He would always tell his children and his grandchildren to stay away from one spot of the floor. They never found out why.
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