Blood on My Hands

run run run, as fast you can, you can't catch me I'm the Runaway-Man

            Fear gripped me like a lost child, one who had knowingly upset their parents. Run. They were furious with me, they wanted me dead. I could see it. It was there. The scolding and beating had finished, leaving behind that nauseating hole of disappointment and shame that kept growing larger with each agonizing second. Run.

                Like any other frightened child, I ran. I fled the unforgettable scene as fast as my weak legs would carry me, dodging cars and bolting over obstacles with great effort. A child. A scared mouse. A killer. So many more things that could describe me…but now wasn’t the time for thinking. Now…now I just had to run! I had to get away from this place…far, far away. So far that I reached an island that never even heard of “The United States” or “West Virginia”. Far…Far…away.

                My eye was still swollen shut and bleeding, impairing me from obtaining my once cheetah like speed and grace. Now, I was fumbling through the forest, tripping over logs and scrapping my skin all to hell, but not once stopping to take a breath. I ran until my feet were numb…then ran some more.

                The dark woods made their own contribution to the scratches and sores on my exposed flesh, drawing fresh blood and leaving a tiny trail. What vegetation that didn’t scratch me snagged the blue dress I was still wearing. Mrs. Archer’s dress. She would be pissed! I definitely couldn’t go back now…I couldn’t bear to face her disappointed expression.  

                I needed my one piece of heaven…that one little patch of life that would keep me safe. I would live there…live in the woods. I could fish in the lake and sleep within the small caves created by the hills and rocks. There was an abundance of deer, squirrel and rabbits, so maybe I could build some snares and eat that. Fires weren’t hard to make…and the water was fresh. I was set for life. The blooming white dogwood that symbolized the entrance to my escape had several branches torn and broken…someone was here. Ignoring the possible danger of any convict that could be lurking in the forest, I bolted into the clearing, ready to kick the s**t out of anyone who disturbed my Narnia.

                He didn’t look like a criminal. He was too frightened. Too scared. He shook so nervously that for a split second I thought maybe he was having a seizure. His emerald eyes were wide and paranoid, searching frantically for something…but what? He held his hands away from him, not allowing them to touch the rest of his body. He looked so…weak.

                “Romeo, where have yo-”

                “Don’t come any closer!” he yelled, fear gripping his features. He was serious.

                “Why not?” I asked, startled by his outburst.

                He said nothing. Instead, he looked around again, observing the landscape. He was balanced on his heels as if he were ready to run if he needed to. That’s when I noticed the streaks of crimson smeared across hiss neck and arms.

                “Romeo! What happened to you?” I only managed one step before he repeated his warning, this time louder.

                “I said don’t come any closer!”

                He was too fragile to be taken seriously. I ignored his threats and went to stand in front of him, taking his hand in my own. He tried to jerk away, but I grabbed his arm in time.

                “Quit! You’re hurt! Now stay still and let me look!”

                He stopped squirming and fell silent, hanging his head. His shaggy hair covered his face, blocking any expression from my eyes. I searched his arms ferociously, searching for any sort of scratch or sore that could have cause the blood. Nothing. I examined his neck, and, again, found nothing.

                “Where’d you get cut? I don’t see anything that could have caused this much blood to pour…”

                I felt his body tense beneath my hand. His usual warmth was gone, leaving him cold and hard. And scared. What’s wrong with you? I thought curiously. Finally, he sucked in a breath of air, getting ready to speak. I leaned closer, straining to hear the words he spoke.

                “What was that? Speak up!” I demanded.

                He lifted his head, looking at me with tear filled eyes. His face was red with shame and silent sobs, destroying his typically calm complexion. He looked how I felt; Petrified. Guilty. Demeaned. Ready to shoot himself.

                “It’s not my blood.”

                “What?” I stammered, hoping what I heard wasn’t true.

                “It’s not my blood,” he repeated.

                “Then…then who’s is it?” I asked, unsure of whether or not I wanted to know. He didn’t reply. “Romeo! Who’s blood is it?”

                “it’s…Draco’s…”  

 

Reviews

[Calypso]

Wow. This chapter is so well written. I wish I could write as well.