My Hands Are Still.

By the time we reached the apartment, I had become subdued. Things had gone from acute chaos, to an eery silence in a matter of minutes. Closing the door behind me, and my heart rate began to slow down. The shaking of my hands, to a shameful stillness.
A cold ice water had washed over me, and the not so distant past, was beginning to become a foul memory. A grim nightmare, I just would not admit, I had been a part of.
Isn’t that what we do? pretend it didn’t happen just so we can look ourselves in the mirror again. Trying to suffocate the heavy day dreaming, the imagery of suicide, of blowing your head off, covering your eyes to the flash of drowning guilt, to the crippling self hate. Cutting that piece out you, even though it has nowhere to go. Carrying the rotten flesh in your hands, until it poisons you. This pussing wound of truth. Covering your nose to avoid the stench of your own reality.
The shrill echo of the ambulance was now a dull ache in my ears, and I felt dirty. Even though I wasn’t, I could swear I was covered in his blood. My hands dripping with the red syrup, and all I wanted to do was shower. Curl up into a tiny ball at the bottom of the tub, and never ever wake up again. I deserved to die. I knew that.
“Here Ang, clean this.” Tyler’s deep voice jarring me out of my self loathing pity party. He’s handing me the hatchet. The silver gleam of it catching my eye, the dry crusted blood sending a numbing over my heart. Death in my eyes. I feel nothing. I’ve gone away to some other place and I don’t know where I am. Taking it in my hand, I walk to the bathroom. Flipping on the florescent light and lean over the ceramic sink. All I can hear is my heart beating, a slow and rhythmic pace. Pulling in a deep and painful breath as I turn the faucet, watching the cool water flow out with a quick splash. The hatched is heavy when I pick it up, scraping against the cheap countertop and I realize, yet again, that my hands aren’t shaking. Sixteen years old, washing a stranger’s blood from a weapon, and my hands are still. I hate myself. Any normal person would be at the station right now. Turning themselves in, hands up, with tears running down their face.
Not me.
I’m the piece of shit covering her tracks, a guiltless asshole destroying evidence.

Avoiding the sharpest part of the blade, I run my fingers over the red crust. Rubbing the pads of my fingers over the blood and slimes up slightly as it makes contact with the water. My fingers slipping every so often as I scramble to get it off. I feel like I’m going to vomit, but I don’t. Just stare at the swirls of pink water flowing down the silver drain pipe. A tender piece of a man’s soul washing away into oblivion. The look in his eyes, flashing through my mind, and I consider slashing my wrists open with the very weapon that almost killed him. My eyelids are a movie screen playing the worst of all horror movies. One I can’t escape. Because this isn’t a fucking movie. This is my life. His life. Our lives. Tyler and She are in the bedroom smoking weed, having left me with this cathartic chore.
One, that will leave my fingerprints for the police to dust and collect. Hindsights a bitch, but in my dazed robotic state, it had never occurred to me that wiping the axe down, would have been a good idea.

 

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2 thoughts on “My Hands Are Still.

  1. “Trying to suffocate the heavy day dreaming, the imagery of suicide, of blowing your head off, covering your eyes to the flash of drowning guilt, to the crippling self hate. ” – This is beautiful, its truth. I am so happy you are writing again xx

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