The Murder Scene (Frerard)

These Hands Stained Red

Chapter One.
Title from Drowning Lessons by My Chemical Romance.

My hand trembled as I helped the stumbling drunk man into my motel room. I could smell his strong cologn and the alcohol on his breath. My arm around his back and his around my shoulders, I was close, physcially close with someone for the first time in a very long time.

Usually I lured them in, but with him, I had to physically help the stumbling mess.

I sat him on the bed of the cheap room, the bed that I never actually slept in. Sometimes after my job is done I lay down, and let every part of the job rush over me. I sometimes think back on it, hate myself for it, and get sick but I never do sleep here. There are too many ghosts.

"T-t-hanks man" the man stuttered, laying back against the headboard. I felt bad for how easy this one was going to be. "Y-ou can call my wife to g-get me?" he asked and stated at the same time as I stood further from him.

"You can crash here if you'd like" I offered, but not really. My voice was shaking slightly as my hands did, as my entire body felt like it might.

"My kids d-don't need to s-ee me like this" he agreed "I don't know h-ow it happened really, it was a promotion celeb-celebration" he slurred, his eyes hanging halfway open. I cringed when he spoke of children, not because I don't like them, but because it made me feel worse for what I was about to do.

The man looked at me, his gently aging face and stubble shadowing his rather handsome face. His eyes were beautiful, an ice blue color, and I hated myself for finding something to remember from everyone I met on the job. The ice blue eyes will be what his ghost haunts me with.

I sat down in a chair across the room and watched him doze off a few times before mumbling words I never could make out. The floral wallpaper lit dimly by the warm lamp on the bedside table, I picked at my fingers, thinking about the thousands of germs that probably danced around my fingertips, crawling along the microscopic indentions of my fingers.

Moments later the man was stumbling to the bathroom, which is what I was waiting for. He vomitted in the toilet, making dreadful retching noises as he did so. I stood up from the chair and walked to the doorway of the bathroom, pulling the pocket knife out from my blazer pocket as he stood up. My entire body shook as the adreniline made me sick, I pushed the man towards the small bathtub and he didn't know what happened before he had fallen the cold and empty tub, his head on the cold tile that covered the wall.

He cried out drunkly as I made sure to convey no emotion, to not give him a smile or a frown, not a tear or a noise came from me. I'm sorry is what I thought to myself as I bent down closer to his level, taking the sharpened pocket knife and sliding it across his throat. It cut through the skin like butter, and his artery burst, splattering me with blood as it shot out at first before pouring from his throat like a rushing faucet of sickening crimson. My hands were covered in blood yet another time, a picture that was burnt into my mind, a picture I would never be able to rid myself of for as long as I live.

The man looked at me with his wide, icy blue eyes as he choked, blood leaked from his lips and puddled around him in the bathtub. His neck was a gaping red smile. I took the wallet from his pocket and opened it, pocketing whatever cash he had.

My hands that were still trembling rubbed the soft surface of the photograph he carried in his pocket. The man, a woman, and two children that looked to be between fourth and seventh grade. I pocketed that too.

My hands were covered in his blood, my face and neck were spattered and I could feel it on me as if it would never come off. The stickiness made me want to vomit. I turned on the sink, the faucet spitting water instead of blood, for some reason I didn't know what to expect. The blood pouring was burned into my mind at such a debilitating level.
I scrubbed my hands, watching the water turn pink as I did so, I scrubbed so hard even after the blood was gone. I could still see the blood, not just from this man but the one I killed two days ago, and the woman I killed a day before that, and the man I killed last week. All of their blood was still there, and no matter how many time I scrubbed it would never leave me.