“Excellent,” he thought. “Or I would have celebrated my sanity by starving to death.”
Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he found himself regarding it. It grinned back at him like a stranger. It was red.
“Blood,” he murmured. His eyes glanced quickly around and he replaced the glove. He continued to walk.
“Blood,” he repeated to himself. The word made an ending in his thought. He walked slowly staring at it. His silence lifted. A voice crept into him and began to speak from a distance.
[One Hundred Twenty-eight]
“Careful,” it murmured. “Be cautious. Remember you were mad. You had almost forgotten. There is something to think about, now. You will walk slowly and think. It’s not as easy as it seemed. Be careful.
“Your fists fought with a phantom. Blows, wild blows. The grotesque memory—the madman pummelling the air. That was you. And your hands are bruised. They’ve been bleeding. Her breasts and head were something else. Your fists struck mercilessly at chairs and walls. When your hands are washed you will find bruises over them that have been bleeding.”
He walked on nodding his head slowly. Later he stopped. The snow was piling itself over the grass of a small park. The swollen shapes of trees and benches rested in the storm.
Mallare sat down on a bench and removed his gloves. Both hands were red. Smiling tiredly, he began to rub them with the snow. His eyes waited as the color dissolved. His hands were clean. He looked at them and nodded.
[One Hundred Twenty-nine]
“There are no bruises,” he murmured. “The blood came from something else.”
He paused and watched the snow.