Klavier Gavin is dreaming.
He is not asleep, but he is dreaming.
He is dreaming of a simpler time, a time when his brother was alive. A time where he didn't have so much blood on his hands. Blood not only of his enemies, but also of his friends.
You don't have to kill someone to take their life.
He walks into the bathroom. He's run out of soap, but he doesn't really mind much. It's not like the blood he's trying to wash off is real. Imaginary, maybe. Perhaps metaphorical. But certainly not real.
You keep telling yourself that. But do you really believe it?
No, of course he doesn't. That's why he keeps trying to wash it all off. No matter how fake it gets, the blood will always be real. He will charm the audience with his dazzling smile, ward off a legion of rabid fangirls, and play the guitar with bloodied hands. They won't notice it is there. The blood is a figment of his twisted and traumatized imagination.
Then he will come home to his apartment and wash off the blood.
He turns on the tap and soaks his hands in the freezing water. He leaves them there until they turn wrinkly and blue, hoping at the back of his mind that he won't have to waste any expensive gel. He can afford it, of course. He just abhors waste.
Waste reminds him too much of his brother.
Alas, it is not to be. He dispenses two pumps of the gel-honey and collagen, slightly pointless but smells good-and grinds them into his hands. A random thought about soap pops into his head.
The hydrophilic head attracts water.
The hydrophobic tail attracts grease.
He smiles. Basic chemistry. Barely even GCSE.
He wishes he could just magically attract all the grease inside his head and wash it away.
Perhaps he is remembering the happier times, when the worst he had to worry about was his English speaking exam the next day.
The memories come flooding back to his damaged mind.
Oil plus base equals soap.
This is a picture of me and my brother at the beach.
Goethe uses vivid imagery when he...
Klavier starts to giggle uncontrollably. Perhaps he is nothing more than one of Goethe's caged birds.
He shoves his hands back under the tap, watching with satisfaction as the blood disappears down the drain.
It will not reappear until morning.