The Crimson River

by Linda Blackwood

No one will believe this was an accident. He stares in fascination at the crimson river staining his hands. This is bad. So, so bad. Better get rid of the evidence.
Quietly, he opens his bedroom door and listens. Voices deep in the bowels of the house. Far enough away for him to risk it. He edges out of the room, creeps to the bathroom, grabbing all the tissues and towels he can carry.
Trying to clean it just makes it worse. He scrubs in increasing frustration as it spreads and stains, soaking through his trousers. They stick to his skin. He wants to cry.
The voices are louder now, coming up the stairs. What should he do? Heart exploding with panic, his eyes dart around the room, desperately searching.  No more time. He has to hide. He holds his breath, trying not to make a sound. Trying to be invisible.
The women stare, confused by what they are seeing. Fresh, dripping handprints smear the wall, glistening rudely red in the overhead light. Footsteps mark a trail between bathroom and bedroom. What is going on?
They push the bedroom door open and flick the switch. The horror of the scene is evident in their wide eyes and shocked gasps.
‘Charley Davidson, what have you done?’ his mum exclaims. ‘Come here right now!’
A curly, four-year-old head peeps out from under the bed.
‘There’s paint everywhere! Oh Charley, you’ve ruined the carpet. And my good towels too!’
‘Wasn’t me,’ he mumbles.