My hands are not clean.

I froze. The deep red shimmered in my palm, and it did not feel like blood.

I need to get rid of the blood. It felt awkward and uncomfortable; it didn’t belong there. Since I didn’t have a Kleenex, I just sat there, cupping my hands and looking at the blood—but sitting there, unable to wipe away the crimson drops, I finally felt the weight of it. I couldn’t simply wash away my guilt. I realized I was covered in it.

If I was going to live I needed spilling of blood. His blood.

He knew what I had to do but it was ok, someone had to die.

My hands are not clean.

Yet seeing the blood on my hands shook me into a new awareness of.

This man, who gave up everything so I could live.

My hands are covered in blood.