Two Wrongs, Two Rights (BWWM)

Indoctrination

Dillion

His knuckles bled as he scrubbed them raw, clawing with blunted nails at the dried blood, not his own, caked to his now bright pink, irritated flesh. Scolding water rushed over his hands, turning crimson pink and capturing it and dragging it down the drain.

His shoulders were tense, tan, ink covered things, stiff as boards as his forearms dug into his side as he bent awkwardly over the too small bathroom sink.

His mind was clogged, mostly with his own thoughts and attempts not to feel anything for the life lost tonight. Then there were the memories... he shook his shaved head hard, ridding the flashes to focus on the pink swirl of water and blood.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest, feeling so much like an itching cough that it added to his slightly panicked humor.

His amusement stemmed from the fact that he couldn't tell a difference if there was any at all, between his blood and the dead man's. As it swirled down the drain he couldn't tell where his blood began and where the man's ended. He found this funny because the whole reason, sorta, as to why a man's blood was on his hands tonight was because the man was different from him. The man had been an 'other'. That man hadn't belonged. That man had been sniffing around something he shouldn't have when he should have stayed where he belonged.

That man had been black.

That should have explained everything and justified all. He knew that. He wanted to believe that. He had believed that as they hunted him down, cornered, and beat him. After all, his kind, they were already being given too much. They had it all and were leaving his race, the best race, with nothing. They couldn't have their women too. Maybe those, uppity liberal girls, they would go for anything and cared nothing about a pure superior race, but they couldn't have their down home girls and think they could get away with it.

So he had been in on the plan. After all, how could they claim to be a group who stood for white pride, but allowed something like this to go down in their own backyard?

He was in on the plan, they used his truck. He had thrown the first punch and got a good one in return, but his boys were there to back him up. They beat that man until he was barely breathing, his skin more blue than black. Troy had wanted to tar and feather him, like the old days, he had laughed. Jimmy wanted to take one of his hands, after all, it would teach him never to touch good, pure, white flesh again. Dillion, though he didn't voice it, thought they had taught him a good enough lesson.

Greg though, didn't have a suggestion at all as they all stared down at the beaten man panting in the dirt, no, his big brother had merely walked up to him, grabbed the man by his kinky hair, pulled out his switchblade and slit his throat.

Dillions jerky laughter stopped abruptly as the memory resurfaced. His gaze flickered up from his hands, the now clear water, and the drain to the mirror before him. Blue clashed with blue and he hated what he saw there. The sound of the rushing faucet water and the sound of his brother and friends boisterous, carefree laughter from downstairs, both so loud and deafening.

He stared at his reflection, blonde hair shaved close to his scalp and a face that resembled his mother's a little too much which always prompted shit from his brother and friends about him being a pretty boy. On his chest, right above his heart was a swastika, still new and a little tender from the weekend before. It was dark against his sun tanned skin, darker than the other symbols snaking across his shoulder blades.

He shouldn't feel like this. He shouldn't feel guilt and something else he couldn't quite or want to name. He had no reason to feel any sort of way. He and the others had done what he knew was right. He knew it.