The red, white and cold

Steam rises from my mouth as I breathe out heavily. The air so cold it feels like I’m breathing ice. The small bloody knife resting in the palm of my hand shimmers in the pale moon light shining through the space between the wooden floorboards. My wild flowing hair and shaggy beard shiver as I silently sob. Salty tears fall down my face and down on the gravely ground. Translucent snot dribbles out of my nose and sticks in the dark red beard. The knife falls to the ground and I with it, landing on my knees, face hidden in the palms of my big hands. “Strong hands, weak mind, how typical.” The midnight high tide crashes on smooth polished pebbles, the air filled with the smell of salt and sand. A lonely cloud veils the moon and darkness seizes me.

I awaken, I wish I wouldn’t. It would have been better that way, just drifting out, no more suffering. “A weak mind will be the death of us all.” It will all end to night, no more running, no more hiding. Body stiff, cold and clammy, should be dead, a frozen meat pile. The blood crusted knife still lying where it fell. Fits nicely in my hand, sharp but short. Empty fish barrels stand in a random manner under the porch, the stair creaks loudly on my way up. The front door wide open, guts and entrails litter the kitchen floor and the moon pale body lies in the center of a huge pool of blood.

Seven gashing wounds cover her neck and throat, like seven red roses. As I walk back out the hallway I glimpse myself in the mirror and just then I realize that I am red, my chest, arms, legs and face. The beard and hair look same as usual, but the rest is covered in cold crusty blood. I go upstairs, pick out some clothes, shower long and hard until the shower turns red and I turn white. Steam fills the cramped bathroom, wiping it of the mirror my eyes fix upon the scars covering my body, the biggest running down from my throat, across the torso and ending on the right upper thigh.

The hand axe lies on the floor shy away from the blood pool. The steel is cold and sharp. It added a new scar to the collection. Shallow cut on the left shoulder, missing its mark, another scar on the neck would have been just what I needed right now. “Perhaps to night, if not then I guess I will have to make due with thirteen.”  Cold fried fish on a white porcelain plate sits alone on the dining table, accompanied by little bit of blood and entrails.

Her red hair fluttered like a flag in the late morning breeze, light as a feather dressed in a white gown. As she lay in the oar boat she looked like she was asleep, eyes closed, the hair in a billow around her head and the neck covered with little red roses. It burned bright, even though it was noon and the thick, black smoke trailed out onto sea. No birds were in the sky and neither were there any clouds but for one lonely cloud that blocked out the sun and refused to move off.

“She wasn’t supposed to die, you were. You knew that. Didn’t you Andrew?” The stars shone bright and pierced the lonely cloud with their bright celestial light. “She attacked me, I was unprepared, I did what I do best.” The high tide crashed on the smooth polished pebbles. “I know, I know lad, and you are very good at what you do but you don’t like doing it, especially if it are your siblings.” The smell of salt and sand filled the air. “But you can rest now my son.” Lightning and thunder split the sky but there was no storm, just the calm crash of the waves. Red blood seeped through the piercing holes in his pale white chest, flowing out free in to the cold night breeze. “You can rest now.”

END