Sometimes, through no fault of your own, you will end up ******. You'll get blood on your dress, blood on your shoes blood in your hair, blood on the walls, speckled on your lips and clinging to your eyelashes copper in your mouth, rust under your fingernails four perfect spatters below you palms stained, bringing out your handprints as if to identify that it is indeed you, covered in blood.
So you'll decide to restore yourself and you'll resolve to wash it all away. And as you scrub away your shame, you'll look in the mirror to see a woman with pursed lips jewels heavy around her neck brow dark and furrowed, concentrating because she, too, is covered in blood.
You will wash your hands with her and try not to look so pale because the water is orange and your fingertips are white. You will turn away from the woman with raw hands and your palms will smell like lemons and your eyes will be bright. Your lips will be crimson. You'll adjust your necklace as you leave.