Demo turned on the light in 211 and kicked the door shut. He pulled back the sheets on the bed and the bloody razor clattered to the floor. Rotten hotel, rotten sheets, he thought, as he ripped two strips from the white cloth. He knelt down by the unconscious boy and deftly wrapped up both wrists, stanching the blood flow. Demo bundled up the bed cover, opened the door, and peeked outside. He stepped out into the hall and using the bed cover as a mop, quickly cleaned up the blood as best he could. Who’d notice anyway? The floor was dirty already. Back in 211 he threw the blood soaked bed cover into the corner. He looked down at the young man on the floor. The white strips of sheet around the wrists were soaked through and red. Demo picked up the kid and laid him out on the bed. Demo tore a
