Disclaimer: Konami owns this game, but my fingers did the typing.
By His Hand
He could still hear them screaming.
The horror was over for them, but it lived on in his mind. His eyes could still see the flames leaping, licking up the night sky. He wanted to shut his eyes and blot it out, but he didn't need his eyes to see it. Over and over again it played, and each time it seemed more horrible than before.
The stench of smoke stung in his nostrils. The air had been heavy that night; heavy with the shrieks of terrified people, heavy with the smell of smoke, heavy with blood.
That was what he could not forget. He remembered the smell of blood. It had clung in the air so long after it was over. Now and again he would remember the smell, and it nearly made him sick to think of it. He would stare at his hands and imagine them stained with blood. He washed his hands until they were raw with scrubbing but he couldn't seem to get the bloodstain off. It clung onto him like a leech, sucking away his happiness by reminding him what he had done.
No one else knew that he still had nightmares about it. He wouldn't dare tell anyone how he relived it in his mind every day, remembering every frightening moment clearly. He hid it all behind a facade of easiness and confidence. He didn't want anyone to know he suffered in guilt and shame; they would think him weak. After all, he had been in many battles in the past and had been forced to take lives.
This was different. This was far worse. There was no excuse for what he had done, no redemption. His deeds followed his every step, hissing cruel reminders over and over again in his ears. He couldn't ignore it, for it surrounded him and would not let him escape.
What have I done? he thought over and over again. What have I done?
He knew what he had done was not right. In fact, it was cold-blooded murder. Murderer. The title chilled him to the bone. Somehow, he had never considered himself a murderer, though he had taken lives before. But this was different than on the battlefield. This time, he had been attacking unarmed people that had done him no harm. Women and children, young and old.... He was disgusted at himself when he thought about it.
What had he been thinking? He wasn't thinking, of course. He had been brash and foolish, and because of that many lives were lost. The soldiers with him couldn't be blamed for what they had done; they had only been following his orders. He was solely responsible for all of it.
His shoulders bore the weight of his sin, but he could not let it push him down in front of everyone. The guilt never seemed to bother him so much when he was with others. When he was alone, it attacked him with full force. Sometimes he knelt on the floor of his room for hours at a time, trying desperately to block out the constant bombardment.
Those that didn't know what he did, he would never tell. He loathed himself for doing such a deed; he knew the reaction of others would be similar, if not worse. He would not speak a word about it, even if that meant he would suffer the guilt in silence for the rest of his days.
No one must know how stained his hands were...
~End
