Stained by Olivia Vanderwal
2025 Flash Fiction Winner
Honourable Mention
Edward has been at the laundromat for three hours. He takes his t-shirt out of the washer after another round — the stain is still there. How the fuck do you wash out blood?
He had been cutting an orange when it happened. The phone rang (it was his brother, Vic). He glanced over, about to decline again, and the knife went right into his thumb. There was a pause before the pain, that moment of it-might-not-be-so-bad, and then red seeped across the cut and he swore under his breath, wrapping his thumb into the base of his shirt without thinking. He swore again when the red began to bleed through the folds of white fabric.
So here he is, sitting on the floor in the laundromat with a towel wrapped around one hand and holding his bloodstained shirt in the other. There are two other people here, an older man leaning against the wall with his eyes closed and young girl reading a book. Edward should’ve thought to bring something — his phone died after the first wash.
He holds up the still wet t-shirt and looks at the stain, a rusty orange spread across the front. The fabric is stretched and worn, and a loose thread hangs from the bottom. A faded image of a werewolf spans the chest, fangs bared in an exaggerated grimace. It’s a stupid shirt, juvenile. Vic had gotten it for him at their first concert together, some metal band Edward doesn’t remember the name of. He’d been twelve.
Edward sighs and moved to get up to put the shirt back in the wash. Maybe he’ll add more stain remover this time. He’s halfway up when he hears a low growl and the lights flicker off. He looks toward the front door and sees a large shadow through the glass, then a pair of dark green eyes. His legs give out. A large paw swipes at the handle and the creature stalks into the laundromat, low and slow, saliva dripping from its fangs.
Edward scrambles back against the washing machine, glancing around. The old man is still leaning against the wall, seemingly asleep, and the girl turns another page of her book. What the fuck?
He can’t even make a sound as the creature moves toward him. He closes his eyes, holds the shirt up like a shield when he hears it a few feet away, and then cries out when he feels a strange pressure against his palm. It’s a tongue. The creature is licking the shirt, almost gently. Edward keeps his eyes closed, knuckles tight where he fists his fingers into the fabric. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, but when he opens his eyes the laundromat lights are back on, the creature has disappeared, and the old man has woken up and is taking his laundry out of a dryer.
Edward’s arms give out, and he looks down at the soggy shirt in his lap. The wolf stares up at him, a laugh in its eyes, and the stain is gone.