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Someone else’s mess always stinks more than yours. Bonnie had simply never really considered it might apply to someone else's blood. With her hands frantically rubbing in a sink, the realization hit her as hard as the stench made her nauseous. It was such a nice dress too, just recently bought by Clyde with the money from their latest “job”. The one before today. The latter went as well as you would expect, looking at their sorry selves and the sorry state of that dress whose mauve pattern was now lost under the dark marks left by the old security guard who had decided to play brave.
“Bonnie.”
How old could he have been, anyway? A tall man with gray hair, a wrinkled face, and traces of muscles that must have been impressive two decades or so ago. A man in his late sixties, no younger than that. Who in their right mind would keep someone his age for security work? She rubbed harder, the foam almost hiding the cloth. Maybe it was out of pity. In these times, it took an even colder heart to sack anyone off. There could have been a family depending on him. Well, look where that got them.
“Bonnie,” she could hear him by the bathroom door this time.
“A moment.”
Clyde had come to her in a heartbeat too, then. The old man was heavy; she couldn’t manage to get his body off of her without help. The ringing in her ears and the weight of that man-turned-corpse fallen on top of her were suffocating, paralyzing her mind and movements. What righteous spirit pushed him to jump on her, her raised gun in front of him and his chest, she couldn’t begin to guess. He was also armed. He was armed, and for some goddamn reason, he didn’t aim at her.
“Bonnie, baby. Leave it.”
“Get off my case, will ya?”
Clyde should have just remained by the bed and minded his own business. But staying put and still wasn’t what Barrows were known for. Bonnie doesn’t need to turn around to imagine his frown, as he leans against the doorframe. In his tone, the little soft-heartedness he has left becomes discernible to the knowing ear. He wants to appease her and she wishes she could make it easier for him. But her nerves haven’t had the sense to calm down yet. They’re keeping her walls up and steady, making her freeze even as his hands come to slowly, gently, rest on her bare shoulders.
“It’s those damn stains. They won’t fuckin’ go away,” is let out in a whisper, with enough venom to attenuate the shaking.
“Forget that thing. It ain’t worth using your pretty hands.”
Hah. Her hands haven’t been pretty in a long time, no matter how you look at them. Years of sewing, mending, washing, cleaning everything subjected to the dusty air of that dirty town didn’t make them much more delicate than Clyde’s. A skin dry and hard from use, ghosts of old calluses lingering here and there. Nothing pretty words could fix. Although some expensive cream or powder might have done the trick. It used to be part of her plan for stardom and Hollywood, after all. But looking at their reddened state now, red from both the scrubbing and the blood, she’s not so sure.
These troubles don’t seem to cross Clyde’s mind. Enveloping her, he takes her wrists and rinses her hands without a word, while she lets him. When he holds them like he does, in spite of the imperfections, a bit of the shame washes away. And when he speaks again, his voice acts like a repellent for her worries.
“You ain’t gonna need to clean a dress ever again, Bonnie babe,” and he kisses her hand with the tenderness of these silver screen gentlemen, “We’ll get you a new one for every day of the year, every year for the rest of our lives. Each one fancier than any Sunday garb anyone has ever owned in this godforsaken place.”
“It’s a nice thought,” she concedes, the shadow of a smile hiding in the corner of her lips. There’s nothing that charming bastard’s sweet words wouldn’t make you believe.
The water is still running down from the faucet, and Bonnie watches as the fabric gives it a crimson shade. She cannot find it in herself to turn it off. She’d rather let herself be lulled by the stream pouring and mixing with the sound of Clyde’s voice.
“You could stain one daily and I’d help you get rid of it,” he adds lower, in the tone of a man sharing his vows on the altar. And as she looks up to his reflection above the sink, on this cracked surface covered in grime, she sees a promise. The intent in his eyes dispels the cloudiness of the mirror.
The certainty that comes washes over her like a blessing.
Because she knows then, beyond any doubt, that she’d parade through Hell for that gaze to keep on meeting hers, if that is what it takes.