My Descriptive writing pieces

Bloody hands

I look down towards my shaking limbs, constantly asking myself 'what have I done?'. Was it my fault or was I just in the wrong place at the wrong time? My hands which can now be seen as murder weapons are scarlet stained with guilt and danger, but as well as passion and desire. Nobody deserves to die per se, but some will most likely have it coming quicker than others. After doing what I did to this 'poor boy', I say that as people will feel sympathy towards him - some more than others, I laughed. I laugh when I'm nervous or scared which is probably the worst time, I look down at my human covered hands to realise the blood from my victim was not only dripping on to the floor beneath me, but as well as creeping up my arm, each droplet like another human hand, grabbing and tugging at my skin. All I could think was 'this surely shouldn't be happening, this is completely insane, am I dreaming because this can't be real?'.

But unfortunately it was real.

The blood cimbing viciously up my arms, staining like a tattoo which can never be removed. It's part of me now. The guilt and the action of this murder is now adding to who I am. Nobody can ever know that it was me who did this, I'll go down for this if people find out. However, my friend Michael is the most trustworthy person I know, It's not fair on my mental state to keep this hidden from everyone. He won't tell a soul, he's my best friend and best friends don't send each other down the river, whether it may be water or blood. 

I ran to his house, not far away from the scene. I decided to kick the door as I didn't want to contaminate the front of his safe haven with evidence of a murder let alone the blood of a disgusting 'human being'. He opened it and I rushed inside, doing my best not to touch anything. "Michael I need to tell you something. I killed him, I killed Josh and now his blood has stained my 'what-was-innocent' pale white skin. I don't know what to do, you can't tell anyone about all this blood." I rambled.

"Nicole..."

"C'mon what is it, we don't have time for messing about!"

"Nicole...there is no blood. Your arms are still pale and white, there is no blood on your hands and I don't believe that you were capable of murdering someone like Josh. If anything, I'd expect it to be the other way around" he awkwardly laughed.

I look down again to my newly blood-tattooed arms, to find a word marked in the scarlet mixture - as if it was written like a child smudging wet red 'ready-mix' paint. But a child who still finger paints wouldn't be able to write this precisely, or even in some cases their own name. I squinted my eyes to see the word a little bit clearer.

The word said "MURDERER"

"Michael it literally says murderer in blood on my forearm, I KILLED HIM!"

"But Nic, there's no blood on your arms, hands or anywhere on your body - you couldn't have killed him, there's no evidence or proof. You really need more sleep!" he chuckled and turned me towards the front door, that was mysteriously still swung ajar.

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*also this is the first time I've used my own name in a piece before ^-^*