Bloodied

Raccoon found Owl in the bathroom, holding a wad of towels to his mouth. He noticed the tear in his shirt, and the knocked over wastebasket, damp, scrunched up paper towels spilling out across the tiled floor.

“What happened to you?” Raccoon asked.

“Nothing,” Owl said. “Picked the wrong time to come in here I guess.”

“Who did it?”

Owl shrugged and wiped the last of the blood from his chin. Raccoon stared at both their reflections in the streaked mirror.

“Alright,” he said, picking up Owl’s bag and slinging it over his shoulder, promising himself this wouldn’t happen again.

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