Prayer For The Dead

I leave bloody fingerprints on the doorknob. I almost stop to wipe them off, but decide against it. It feels like less of a secret that way. Almost a confession.

My boots track mud into the small foyer and the part of me that grew up with pleases and thank yous tells me I should take them off. This is someone's home after all. Or, it was, at least. I don't think anyone has stepped inside in quite a while.

I give the laces of each boot a sharp tug, the knots slipping open easily. I leave them by the front door. I ignore how my hands shake and I ignore the dark splatters on my boots and I ignore the clawing in my lungs.

My backpack is heavy on my shoulders. I let the bag slide off my back, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud. I wish the stone in my chest was as simple to dislodge.

My socked feet wander further into the house, the rest of me following blindly. The small house is too quiet, too still. It's blanketed by the same eerie silence that has haunted me since the beginning, seeping in through the cracks in my conscience.

There are pictures in frames on the walls of a happy family, laughing, smiling, and I try to remember the last time I had a conversation with another person. I'm not surprised to find that I can't.

I stumble into the kitchen and am made suddenly aware of the sharp, coppery taste of blood in my mouth. My tongue explores the cracks in my lips and thirst makes itself known.

A half-empty package of plastic water bottles sits on the floor by the refrigerator (an old one, robin's egg blue—mom would've liked it) and I pull a bottle out. I assume this particular family's flight was a frantic one. No one in their right mind would have left water like this.

I drain the first bottle with a monstrous intensity, for a moment the only sounds hanging in the air are my deep swallows and the crinkling of the bottle. I toss the empty bottle on the kitchen table and slump into one of the chairs.

The red marks are bright on the clear plastic, the light blue label on the bottle. I wonder if guilt ever goes away or if it simply eats its victims whole. There's red under my fingernails, too.

I wonder why the faces of the many people who have saved me, loved me, hurt me have all faded and yet why I know in my bones that his face will never leave.

I bolt up, unable to bear the red anymore. I grab another water bottle from the package and walk to the sink. I dump part of its contents over my fingers, scrubbing harshly at the partially dried stains. If it hurts me too then maybe it's not so bad. If the guilt is strong enough maybe I'm not a horrible person. If the skin on my hands is nothing but my blood then maybe I'll never see his again.

I pause my furious scrubbing, blinking in the sunlight streaming through the window above the sink. There's a glass sitting in the drying rack under the window, sparkling in the sun. I pick it up, running my wet hands over it. The water is mixed with blood, leaving my fingers to run in little rivers down the glass. I throw it at the wall. It shatters, the sound like an explosion in the silence.

Savage, monstrous, feral.

Guilty.

I slam open the cabinet doors, grabbing plates, bowls, coffee cups, hurling them all over the floor, the walls. Shards of glass and porcelain are strewn around the room like confetti, a sick celebration.

I slide to an uncluttered part of the floor, the eye of the storm. I sit back against the blue refrigerator, knees pulled up to my chest.

I should be something. Sad. Angry. But all I feel is guilt. Guilt for not feeling guilty enough. You'd think I'd feel something.