"Her blood is on your hands"
Word count: 1914
Time: 1.5hrs
Some excerpts:
I wake up. My eyes stay closed, but I can tell it's dark. I have a feeling about these things and this darkness is definitely the kind you can feel. It's the kind of darkness you can feel even when your eyes are closed, your head is pounding, your body aches, you don't know where you are, you don't even know who you are. Your hands are sticky.
My hands are sticky. I open my eyes. The predictable darkness is there, thicker than life. It's the kind of darkness that forces you to swim through rooms, carefully making your way, feeling for obstacles. Your eyes will never adjust to this darkness. Your pupils can not grow large enough to allow you to use whatever slight amount of light might be present to make out even the murkiest edges of the objects around you.
I'm pretty sure I'm on my back on a hardwood floor. My slight movements -- ginger attempts to assess my situation -- cause pain to shoot virtually everywhere through my body. These slight movements bring echoes: more clues to my environment. It sounds large, empty, alone.
How many times do I have to wake up in darkness, in strange locations, in pain, wondering whose blood I am covered with, before I'll get the message and realize that this just isn't the business for me? And yet, I don't know how to do anything else. One might think that finding oneself in such a state more than once might indicate that I'm not that good at this either, but I let my record speak for itself. I'm pretty damn good. I've never let a case go unsolved, never not gotten my man. Sure, I've never been Detective of the Year, but that whole thing is just a popularity contest anyway. I've got more than enough crap cluttering my shelves without some cheap-ass trophy to add to the mix. That might sound like I'm making excuses or trying to justify the lack of peer recognition I've received, but seriously, those guys are a bunch of assholes. If you'd ever been to one of the dinners, you'd know exactly what I was talking about. I just don't need it.
Apparently the room doesn't want to completely disappoint me though. When I turn back to the switch and the door it's conveniently placed right next to, I see something that makes me long for a minute ago when there was nothing. Something that makes me long for darkness. It's a note. Well, it's more of a message -- written, in blood, on the door.
"Her blood is on your hands."
I look down at my hands, turn them over, turn them back, searching the now-dry blood for any clue, waiting for it to tell me something, knowing it won't, not yet at least.
I look back at the door and ask it "Well, no shit. But who the hell is she?"
Time: 1.5hrs
Some excerpts:
I wake up. My eyes stay closed, but I can tell it's dark. I have a feeling about these things and this darkness is definitely the kind you can feel. It's the kind of darkness you can feel even when your eyes are closed, your head is pounding, your body aches, you don't know where you are, you don't even know who you are. Your hands are sticky.
My hands are sticky. I open my eyes. The predictable darkness is there, thicker than life. It's the kind of darkness that forces you to swim through rooms, carefully making your way, feeling for obstacles. Your eyes will never adjust to this darkness. Your pupils can not grow large enough to allow you to use whatever slight amount of light might be present to make out even the murkiest edges of the objects around you.
I'm pretty sure I'm on my back on a hardwood floor. My slight movements -- ginger attempts to assess my situation -- cause pain to shoot virtually everywhere through my body. These slight movements bring echoes: more clues to my environment. It sounds large, empty, alone.
How many times do I have to wake up in darkness, in strange locations, in pain, wondering whose blood I am covered with, before I'll get the message and realize that this just isn't the business for me? And yet, I don't know how to do anything else. One might think that finding oneself in such a state more than once might indicate that I'm not that good at this either, but I let my record speak for itself. I'm pretty damn good. I've never let a case go unsolved, never not gotten my man. Sure, I've never been Detective of the Year, but that whole thing is just a popularity contest anyway. I've got more than enough crap cluttering my shelves without some cheap-ass trophy to add to the mix. That might sound like I'm making excuses or trying to justify the lack of peer recognition I've received, but seriously, those guys are a bunch of assholes. If you'd ever been to one of the dinners, you'd know exactly what I was talking about. I just don't need it.
Apparently the room doesn't want to completely disappoint me though. When I turn back to the switch and the door it's conveniently placed right next to, I see something that makes me long for a minute ago when there was nothing. Something that makes me long for darkness. It's a note. Well, it's more of a message -- written, in blood, on the door.
"Her blood is on your hands."
I look down at my hands, turn them over, turn them back, searching the now-dry blood for any clue, waiting for it to tell me something, knowing it won't, not yet at least.
I look back at the door and ask it "Well, no shit. But who the hell is she?"
posted by adam at 1:51 AM
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