My Hands
He looked at his hands and wondered if people could see what he saw. Beyond the scars, beyond the callouses. Past the nimble fingers that could squeeze the trigger of a gun with such ease. The fingers that could tie knots in a gauze bandage after a particularly nasty fight. He didn't see the scars or the callouses, nor did he see how pale they looked underneath the cheap incandescent lightbulb in their claustrophobia-inducing bathroom. He turned the water on and waited for it to be, by most people's standards, blistering hot.
The water pooling at his feet ran red. He scrubbed and scrubbed, but his hands were forever stained red with blood. He fell to his knees then and leaned against the wall surrounding the shower.
This was his first kill. He felt so tired, weak from the adrenaline, the rush--the thrill--it gave him. He could still hear the pleas in his head from his first target and he smirked. That bastard deserved it after all. He sighed.
Don't you feel guilty for what you've done? a voice inside his head asked.
Are you one of the people who's left me?
No, the voice answered. I'm your conscience, the 'angel' portion. You should repent before it's too late.
He laughed. I'm already condemned. What difference would it make now? Besides, someone like me doesn't need you.
Why? The voice seemed annoyed.
Because I don't feel guilt or remorse.
The voice laughed. Then why choose such a contradictory name, Guilty?
What the hell does it matter to you? Get out of my head, I don't want to hear you anymore.
He stood and turned off the water in the shower, deeming himself 'clean'. He would properly wash himself when there weren't annoying voices claiming to be his conscience in his head. Stepping out, he dried himself and threw on a clean shirt and pants. It was a good thing he didn't like those other clothes; they were too stained, and so would have to be thrown out--mostly likely even burned. Crawford could handle that, he knew the proper procedure.
"I need a cigarette," he muttered as he looked at his hands once more. There was still a reddish tinge to them, he noticed. Like red dye, blood stained everything it touched.
Schuldig decided it didn't matter if he had the hands of a killer--that was what he was, after all. No one looked at his hands anyway.