Thicker Than Water

Oh, God, there's so much blood. Why is there so much blood? If it's not his blood, then how did it get there? He just wishes he could remember. Why can't he remember?

Zack Greene leans over the porcelain sink as he stands in front of the bathroom mirror. He doesn't remember how he got here or where he came from. A soft smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he stares at his own reflection. The way his brown hair falls into his pale blue eyes is odd. He knows something is different about himself. He knows, but he can't for the life of him, figure out what it is.

 

The sound of dripping water reverberates off the walls and finds its way inside Zack's head. He shifts his gaze to the sink. Every few seconds, a drop of water falls from the chrome faucet and splatters on the drain. He turns the sink off.

 

Zack's mouth falls open in shock when he sees two bloody handprints in either side of the sink. Every inch of the hand is perfectly forms the prints. Suddenly, he knows what's off about the reflection in the mirror. It's his shirt. Crimson stains pepper his white t-shirt. Oh, God, there's so much blood. Why is there so much blood? Zack claws at the stains, fear shrouding his eyes, but it only seems to make the color deepen.

 

Zack searches himself for wounds, but he isn't hurt. But if it isn't his blood, then whose is it? He hears the sound of the water dripping. It pounds against the walls of his skull, drowning out the sound of his own thoughts. Oh, shut up!

 

Zack clamps his hands over his ears, but the sound finds its way in. He scowls at the faucet. The drops of water echo off of the walls of the sink. He knows he turned the water off. Zack turns it off again and returns to the task of gaping at the blood stains on his clothes.

 

A few flecks of blood on his faded blue jeans catch his eye. How did they get there? Whose blood is this? Zack's eyes meet those of his reflection. He sees something behind those eyes. It's not fear. It's not confusion. It's satisfaction. Zack finds himself smiling along with the man in the mirror. It looks like Zack, but something about it doesn't.

 

Again, the slow drip of water finds its way inside his head. Zack must have left it on. No, he's sure he turned it off. He decides to ignore it. Zack's reflection raises his hands and faces his palms outward, sadistic grin plastered on his face.

 

Blood coats the skin on his palms. Zack turns his own hands over, and he sees the same blood on his hands. The deep red remains in his vision even when his eyes are closed, always finding its way inside his head.

 

So many different emotions cloud Zack's head as they merge together to form some sort of dread that sits at the pit of his stomach, the feelings lacing together so tightly that he can't even tell one of them apart from the next.

Again, the sound of that damn water rings in his ears. He turns his eyes hatefully toward the sink. Zack clasps his fingers around the cool metal of the chrome faucet and rips it from the pipes that once connected it to the sink. Water sprays from the mangled pipes, a gentle mist showering over him.

 

The faucet in the mirror, however, remains completely intact. The water in the reflection turns red. The drops fall more slowly now. They land with a much deeper sound than that of the water. Soon, the basin of the sink is stained with the blood.

 

Something in the reflection draws Zack's attention. His reflection turns to look at it. Someone is lying on the tile floor, their head surrounded by blood. Zack rushes over to the boy who is sprawled out on his back only a foot behind him.

 

Zack places his middle and index fingers on the boy's neck and wrist, checking for a pulse. He finds none. Carefully, Zack turns the boy's head over. A deep wound sits on the back of his head. His brown hair is caked with blood, not all of it dry. Visible in the gash, are shattered fragments of the boy's skull, peeking out from the mess of tissue and blood.

 

Zack covers his mouth with his hand, stifling a gasp. Behind him, a laugh fills the air. It's not a normal laugh. It's demented -the type of laugh you might hear from a crazy person. The reflection in the mirror smiles approvingly at Zack.

 

"You should be proud of your work," it grins, gesturing at the corpse.

Zack gives at an expression of pure terror and confusion. What is it talking about? I'd never kill anyone. Never.

 

"It feels good, doesn't it? The way you smashed his head against the floor. The screaming is always my favorite part," the man in the mirror smiles.

 

"I didn't do this," Zack announces, more for his own comfort than to prove his innocence.

 

"Of course you did, and it was amazing. You've got a real skill," the reflection informs Zack.

 

"No. I didn't do this!" Zack yells.

 

"How else do you think that blood got on your clothes?" the reflections asks.

 

No. I couldn't have done this. Why would I do this? What's happening to me? Zack glances at the mirror and then to the body. Zack can only think of one thing.

 

"Get out of my head!" Zack launches his fists at the mirror. The glass cracks and then shatters. Zack examines the fragments of the mirror embedded in the side of his hand. He smiles at the stab of pain and the blood that trickles down his arm as he plucks each piece of glass out of his skin.

 

Suddenly, Zack remembers. He remembers everything. My name is Zack Greene. I killed that boy, and it felt good. Zack grins as he saunters out into the night, leaving the body behind. He loves the feel of the blood on his hands. He relishes the short burst of cold that the blood sends coursing through his veins the moment the wind touches his skin. Zack knows his job isn't finished. I have to feel the blood on my hands again. And I will.