A fast-paced, emotional piece. Superb!
My hands. They were my hands. Elbows bent at a ninety degree angle, hands turned palms up and fingers spread. Staring, staring, I could not return them to my body, it would be admitting they were mine. These hands, these blood soaked hands, I wanted no part of them.
How? I did not mean to, but I did. I felt dizzy. My head swirled.
I fell upon my knees, staring at my bloody hands.
I AM A MURDERER!
“Murderer, murderer,” repeated in my mind.
There was no lack of proof. There was a body, there were witnesses, there was a motive, and blood upon my hands.
Remembering the act, I yelled out in agony, I did it. Murderer. I murdered a man.
His eyes. I can not get his eyes out of my head. There was something about them I could not stand. They tortured me. I murdered him.
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