Maybe there is a god above.
That is what I tell myself as I look down at the two bloody hands before me, clarity so fucken unreal.
I can't imagine a day that they were clean, why can't I, it kills me to know that I prefer them this way.
Prefer the nightmare before me. Makes me believe that I no longer exist, that the prickly bastard devil that has taken on my skin is not really me. I would never kill men that meant me no harm, I would never tear families apart, and leave disaster and misery just for the hell of the job.
That isn't me, and yet… it is.
Maybe there is a god above, I tell myself.
But he isn't here.
I know, Gilbert Bougainvillea is dead, he died a good man, a man that wanted a family, a man that loved a brother, a girl that was more than a killing machine, and all that's left is me. Bloody hands and all.
