Sara stared down at her hands. The sticky, red trails almost seemed to move as she watched them.
"So much blood," she murmured. Shouldn't it be hot? Or at least warm? But her hands were cold, even with the blood on them. Sara turned her hands over. The blood was everywhere. It had left her hands and moved towards her elbows. It had dripped onto the floor.
No, dripped was the wrong word. Dripping was slow, gentle, painless. The blood had poured from Andy's body, even as she had tried to stop it.
The blood had been warm then, she thought. It had been hot, and pulsing, and alive under her hands. It had a mind of its own, ready to escape the confines of a body, ready to see the world.
She had tried. She did everything she knew how to do. Except gloves, came the thought from the back of her mind. She should have put on gloves before touching blood. That's what they had taught in her first aid class, so many years ago.
There was no time to find gloves, though. Sara didn't know if she even owned any. The only thing she could do was try to cover the gaping wound as Andy grew pale. And scream. She vaguely remembered screaming.
"Miss?" The deep voice made Sara jump. She looked up from her hands into a the eyes of someone who had seen this before. "Please, come with me. We need to get you cleaned up."
"It's Andy's blood," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I should keep it for him."
"Andy doesn't need that blood, sweetheart," the man said, sympathy written across his face. "Come on. We'll get you taken care of."
"It's Andy's blood," Sara repeated, looking back down at her hands as the man helped her up, wrapping the blanket more securely around her. "I should keep Andy's blood." It was easier to look at the blood than to remember how the light had faded from his eyes.
She could swear she still saw the blood moving.