Blood

To be a Murderer (1)

This story is copyrighted. Please note that I took a long time to write this and I still am.

Copyright © 2011-2012 Sierra256715

Also note that this book contains: light swearing, general adult content and war/holocaust theme and may not be suitable for everyone so I recommend that if you are in Year 7 or below (age 12 and under) you might want to consider whether or not to read this book. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 I clutched the corners of my chest of drawers, and glared at myself in the mirror angrily. I forced back the urge to smash my fist into the mirror and let out the anger that had been building all of this evening, but my mood wasn't helping in the slightest.

 "You idiot, Taro," I snarled at myself, lacing each word with my own disgust.

 I continued to glower at my reflection irately, staring at my unruly appearance brought on by the sleepless nights and now empty beer cans and vodka bottles. My brown hair was in disarray, full of knots and tangles, and my eyes had large black rings around them, making the blue orbs look tired and dull. I continued to glare, hatred for myself boiling in me. Yes, I was an idiot. I shouldn't have done it!

 "But you did," I whispered, weakness and sadness filling my eyes.

 My self-control waned and I slammed my fist against the wall by the mirror, cracking the plaster work slightly, and sighed heavily, letting my head drop. Bang. Bang. Bang. I bashed my head on the wall, exhaling deeply. I held my head in my hands as my vision span and twirled, reminding me of my dizzy state brought on by my drunken brain.

 "Oh great, now you have turned to self-harming! You're not just a murderer; you're a goth now, and guess what? A drinker!" I said sarcastically to myself, allowing a scolding expression to animate my features.

 I slumped down the wall and grabbed the bottle of vodka from the table as I slid down. I took a large swig of it, the burn barely present now, and stared at my hands. I remembered, rather ominously, the play I had been required to take part in when I was at school, Macbeth, and the foreboding lines of Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth sang in my mind; "A little water clears us of this deed."

"Oh the irony!" I cried dramatically, sweeping up my hand to pose as if I were on a stage.

I dropped the bottle and it smashed, showering me with broken glass and alcohol. A shard cut the skin on my hand and blood ran from it, oddly bright on my pale skin. I brought my bleeding hand up to my face, examining the dark, ruby-red liquid as it coated my hands; just like the night where I had felt the similar feeling of hot wetness on my hands, smelt the strong scent of iron seeping from the wound and seen the red coating my fingers.

Why did I do it?

 I loved him. I still did though I killed him. He crushed my heart without a care in the world, and yet I still loved him. I no longer liked him - of course not! But I still loved him and nothing could change that. Only now did I feel the regret, the sadness and the grief. All I had felt was complete anger when I first discovered his secret, and then I followed him. The dagger did the job, it did a fine job in fact.

 "We could have been perfect," I whispered to myself, tears brushing my cheeks.

My voice had become croaky and raspy due to the burn in the back of my throat, and a constant rush of nausea fluttered in my stomach, along with the pounding in my head.

 I had loved him; loved him more than my world, more than my family, more than I valued my own life, and then he stamped on me. Our relationship had been - or at least seemed - perfect. We had a small flat in a nice area of the city, the approval of our parents and decent jobs.