Weeping May Stay for The Night

His hands ached from the cold. Or maybe it was the rubbing. But he couldn't stop. He'd been washing his hands in the church's shared dingy bathroom for twenty minutes now. But he couldn't stop. He could still smell the blood. Years and years and years and years and years later, and he could still smell the blood. He had it down to routine now, wash and scrub and rub until he couldn't stand the cold of the water anymore-cold water was always best for blood, he'd scrubbed it out of enough floors to know-and then he'd towel off and rub and scratch and then he'd want to take a step to leave.

 but he wouldn't. He'd turn back to the sink and start the process anew. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and scratch and tear and then he'd realise.

Staring at his shaking hads, he'd realise the blood was his own.

He'd stay that way for a while and then he'd wring out the towel-doing his best to ignore how closely the motion mirrored the practiced action of wringing a neck-and he'd get a rag cloth and scrub the blood out of the basin.

When all was done, he'd go back downstairs with his best smile on his face and someone would ask him what took so long. He'd make a joke and they'd all laugh not ask anymore about it. He'd talk and laugh and feast as well as any of them, until all eventually succumbed to fatigue. He'd see each one as they slowly trickled out personally, the very face of hospitality, as he asked after their grandmothers and aunts.

They'd all leave happy and well fed, and then he'd turn out the lights and finally retire to his own bed.

Then he'd just lay there and stare at the ceiling for a while. He'd forgotten how to cry a long time ago-but that was okay, he didn't have anyomore tears left to shed-and he'd wait for release that never came.

 And rinse and repeat.









....Hrm, I'm not really satisfied with this one. Somethings missing, I think.