Miss Scarlett in the kitchen, with the candlestick I think.
Because yellow wax had settled in mysterious splotches, in far flung places.
And blood that should have by rights belonged in Colonel Mustard's head was pooled by the fridge.
And in the sink. And on the step.
It had congealed by morning, and when I stepped in it, heaving my everything-I-own-suitcase through the doorway, it coated my sole thickly.
I tried not to think about it as I balanced over the bath, one foot in, one foot out.
And now I need to find a flat.
Oh the melodrama.
And oh the conceit of this convoluted conceit.