Author's Notes:

This is my first 'original' story, I guess you could say and I must say that I'm extremely happy with it. It's sadistic, bloody and absolutely insane; what's not to love? ;) This is my first time writing something like this. Nightmaric (my beta) says this style is similar to Edgar Allen Poe's. I'm not really fluent in Poe's writings, though. I've only read one story by him and it was for literature class last year.

Inspiration for this story comes from the song Hand of Blood by Bullet for My Valentine, where the title is also derived.

Hand of Blood

My head spins fast, my hands move to grab the knife. I can’t feel anything anymore. I don’t want to feel anything. Not after her, not after what she said to me. She wants me to apologise for it. Well, I did and this is how she treats me. I’m not repenting, I’m not saying I’m sorry. Not anymore. She’s not getting away. My love still pulsates, but was I nothing all these years? Am I nothing now?

Am I just insignificant compared to that mollycoddling man she chose the minute she saw him? Well, fine. She gets it then.

Knives have become my new favourite toy. Playing with them is strangely enjoyable. I can’t stop. I will never stop.

Drip, drop, drip, drop. It’s crimson red.

I can still hear her heartbeat. There’s still a pulse in her veins. Life pounds and throbs on and on and on and I want it to stop. Why won’t it stop? Why are there voices in my head? Why are there still sounds in silence?

Am I going insane?

Blood; its presence assures me I have done the deed right. I can’t help it anymore. There’s a little section in my brain that goes off whenever you mention him…whenever you think of him.

I’m not stalking you. You let me in when you let me love you and when you loved me the same way. You trusted me enough to give me the key to your mind. It’s mine to keep forever.

I’m not making this up. You promised me.

Weeks of longing, months of deprivation, years of pure pain; you poisoned my life. I hate what you’ve done. I hate every single inch, ounce and burden you once were.

So why can’t I hate you? Why can’t I say it like I actually meant it? It’s three words. It shouldn’t be that difficult.

Your face turns away from me, like you’re ashamed of me. It’s also like you find me so disgusting that you can’t look me in the eye. Or maybe… What, are you scared? Are you afraid that I can expose you of your phoniness, your façade? You’ve tricked me for five years of my life, you’ve robbed me of what could have been mine; and here you are running away from the trouble you’ve caused again. Always running, aren’t we? Always hiding. You make up stories. You’ve thrown everything back in my face. You’re cold. You’re empty, and empty hearts don’t deserve my sympathy or my mercy.

There’s blood on my hands. Big, mottled blood stains that cover my fingers and palms. The red is outlandishly comforting against the pale of my skin. The patterns in which the blood swirls are art. The splotches smell like copper and it makes me oddly excited and it puts me in a high place. It’s so high I almost can’t come back down.

Am I losing it?

You don’t answer me. It’s like I’m talking to myself. It’s like I’m insane.

Am I insane?

I’m not insane. I can’t be insane.

I leave the room for you do not wish for me to be present. I make for the bathroom to wash the blood off.

But I’m intoxicated. I’m seduced by it. I can’t wash it off. I don’t want to wash it off. As I lean on the bathtub away from the running water in the sink, a smile spreads across my face. This is nice. The blood is drying on my hands and I make my way back to the main room.

I dip my hands back in the red pools. It’s chilly and it sends shivers down my spine. I bring my newly-soaked hands to my face, smearing the blood across and taking in its wonderful, coppery scent. I continue to play in the blood, every immersion into it setting off fireworks in my body.

For a split-second, it allows me to forgive you. This blood that tastes like sweet sherry in my mouth is the atonement for what you’ve done.

Is it?

You don’t respond. You won’t even speak to me anymore. It seems I am so much of a monster to you now. I wish I could rip your heart out. Your cold, unfeeling heart. But the thing is, I cannot find it. Maybe you really have no heart.

Red stains on the walls, crimson smears on the floor. I’m done with you.