#i...wrow...

       hélène’s fingers draw against their chin, the garishness of red a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin.  “oh.”  it’s a sound of surprise, like it isn’t a normal thing for them to be speckled with blood, a macabre interpretation of pollock’s art.  normally (though, what tegan accepts as normal isn’t what we, the audience, accepts as normal), they would have cleaned up, not made it so obvious of their actions.

at least they can lie.  lying is the only thing they’re good at anymore.

there’s a slow blink, eyes fixating on the smear.  “i must have bit the inside of my lip.”  the words slip from their tongue so easily, perfectly performed.  they’re an actress on the stage, the bright lights burning their eyes---still, they never falter (well, maybe not never).  “i’ll go clean it up.  don’t...don’t worry about it.  i’ll bring you tissues.  it’s not right of you to walk around with someone’s blood on your hand.”