short stories

guilt

short story #2

the guilt presses down on me like a thousand tons, crushing my organs and my already shattered heart.

why?

why did i do that?

i look at my trembling fingers, covered in scarlet blood.

i look at the knife, stained crimson red.

i look at him, the bleeding, pale body.

with its eyes wide open and its mouth agape in its final, desperate howl of agony.

the terror on his face as he sees me holding the knife high.

the shock as i run right towards him.

the anger, the desire to fight back, to resist death.

all to no avail.

my knife sinks into his flesh, cutting a clean, neat hole through his heart, puncturing his lungs, as a bubble of blood forms and bursts at his lips.

his eyes grow wide and he screams. 

help me.

i cannot watch as i plunge the knife again and again into the dying body, that cold, merciless blade sucking the life out of the poor victim.

and again, i feel the crushing pressure of guilt.

what is this feeling? in my life, i have sworn never to feel guilt, remorse or sadness. my life is a whirl of blood, death and lies.

what is this feeling?!?!

i claw at my face with my bloodied hands, ignoring the red marks they leave on my skin. i scream too, like a trapped animal, one going insane in its cage.

what have i done?

i groan as i sink to the floor, burying my face in my hands. i crouch in the corner, giggling and moaning simultaneously, and the feelings become too much.

i let it all loose in one animalistic scream, my heart and soul poured into this high-pitched shriek.

i grasp the knife tightly in my pale hands.

the silver glints in the moonlight, ready for another job.

i lower the knife to my wrists, shivering like a leaf.

i laugh at the little beads of blood that my knife is leaving in its wake.

i cut deeper.

deeper, and i do not make a sound as the knife slits the artery on my wrists.

only then do i slump to the ground, mouth open in a grin as my eyes glaze over and the knife falls out of my hand.

guilt.