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A Little Water Clears Us Of This Deed

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So yeah. The blood on the floor scares the ever living crap out of Jenny. To be fair though, it would scare anybody.

Jesusfuck, she thinks to herself, then shakes her head like it'll shake the curse out of her.

The blood's bad, but the part that really scares Jenny is how easy the next bit comes.

She doesn't even have to think about it. She goes and gets a bucket of hot, soapy, bleach-y water, rolls up the sleeves of her cardigan, and starts scrubbing.
Jenny scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until her hands feel raw, because there's no way she can just leave the place like this.

And God forgive her, she can't let any of the boys swing for whatever the hell's happened here. She may not know the what or the why, but she knows the Donnellys and she knows what this much blood usually means, so she can make some fairly good guesses.

She scrubs, and her head's not sure if it's crawling at a snail's pace or moving a mile a minute, but it really doesn't matter because there's blood in the cellar of Jimmy's bar and no Donnelly in the relative vicinity, which the more she considers the more she realizes it tells her all she really needs to know.

Jenny wants to call Tommy. She should have called him first, come to think of it, but the floor isn't going to clean itself and truth be told, she doesn't want to know what happened.

It's not like Tommy'd tell her even if she asked. He looks after his brothers like it's a full time job, which it kinda is. Following that thought and the blood to their logical ends says that Tommy's busy Taking Care of Things because either Jimmy, Kevin or Sean has gone and screwed something up to hell and back. Maybe Tommy himself's even gone and done something stupid that needs some ends tied off.

If that's the case, she tells herself, because saying it to the floor would mean actually saying it, then I'd hate to see the knot.

And with that, Jenny decides that she doesn't need or want to know anything at all. Okay, sure, it's a little late for that, seeing as she's on her knees in enough bleach-water and blood to sink a ship in and wondering how much of the blood Tommy's got on his own hands, literally or figuratively, take your pick.

Whatever's gone down, going down, or will go down, she's still helping in her small way. She's got this bucket and goddamn if the floor isn't sparkling by the time she's done.
She sits back on her heels and wonders what to do next. Go to Confession? Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It's been a week since my last confession. I probably covered up a murder today.

She tries to find it in herself to laugh. She can't though, because the truth isn't particularly funny. And she's probably not going to be heading to the church anyhow.
Instead, she rubs her wrinkled, dried out hands together and tries to figure out where she can safely dump the dark pink water in her bucket.