Collection of Stories

The Blood on my Hands

*Hi, so this was something I did as part of my revision for English Language, but I thought it was pretty cool so there you go. Hope you like it :) *  

This is it; This is home. It doesn't look like much, just your everyday metropolis. But it has a dark side, silent, mysterious, dangerous.

As I came riding into port that day, that was all that ran through my mind. The silhouettes of skyscrapers towered over me with an evil look in their eyes, daring me to bring up the past, to remind the world of what happened there on August 2nd. The blood shadow still remained on my fingers; I washed them for the millionth time in the yacht's porcelain sink, flicked water at my tired, dead eyes and tried to muster a smile... I'm still trying.

"We're here sir!" Antonio's voice cried out low against the rush of waves we left trailing behind us like a great big chalk line drawn by a giant, dissolving slowly into the sea. I nodded my head in the affirmative; I had understood. I needed a second. His roughened face disappeared again to the ocean washed deck, littered with empty hazel bottles and fingers of seaweed creeping around the sides

With lead like reluctance, I dragged myself up to that deck, picked up a can that still possessed some numbing spirit and chugged it dry. Throwing it into the sea, Antonio gave me a glare and I shrugged. I was paying him. He had no right to judge. Pulling down his navy blue suit sleeves, Antonio turned away from me, set his eyes on the dying sun, watched as it bled out into a blanket of still blue, reminding me again of the blood on my hands.

I looked at my hands again, turning them to see first the dry, calloused palms, then the dorsal side which was ruined by a thin, snake-like scar that refused to fade. The blood was still there, even if you couldn't see it anymore. No amount of washing, or praying, or apologies would remove it.

'Just like Lady Macbeth,' I had thought.

But then, I was heading to repay my debts and looking back, it seemed the perfect way to make reparations to...

A Latino women had stood on the dock as we drove in, watched me intently as I made my way over to her, tears in her eyes. If anyone else were to be watching, they may have thought her to be my grandmother. But she was not my grandmother. She was...

"Do you have it?" Her voice was barely audible, but I noticed the crack, looked at the brimming tears in her eyes like a lock about to open and my words were stolen by shame. I nodded solemnly and handed her the brown paper package. "Ah."

There in her hands lay the last possessions of her late grandson, whom I had brutally murdered with my ignorance. I had looked within it before hand: One shirt, one pair of trousers, two converse shoes, an old beaten leather watch, and a journal, its yellowed pages curled and stained with dark crimson blood that, like my hands, could never be removed.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

There were no more words to say. Maybe I shouldn't have spoken at all. I regret that now. Those three syllables were as empty as my soul, specks in the universe that should never have been disturbed.

I have done wrong. I have sinned. Blood stains my hands.

But most importantly, I must pay the price.