Although I am not eligible for being voted on before, I had to make the attempt at Mystery Topic Challenge #14 since I was the one who suggested the topic. Here is the topic:
Put Yourself in Someone Else’s Shoes
Blogs, for the most part, tend to be personal and egocentric. For this challenge, choose someone, real or imagined, in the news, a world leader, or a bum on the street. Write a post as if you were in their shoes for one day. You can write on any subject you’d like, but it MUST be from someone else’s point of view.
To read the other entries, visit the MTC Blog.
I watch as the blood runs through my fingers. It’s so very red. Alive, almost. I can smell its coppery tang and as I glance to the left of me and then to the right, I bend down and lightly touch the tip of my tongue to the blood. There is a shudder of revulsion at what I just did, but I also sense that the feeling of revilement is one I’ve been taught. Perhaps I should… taste it again? I do so and this time there is no sense of being repulsed by the act. I’m curious now, analytical.
Salt. Do I also taste copper? I’m not certain. I don’t know what the taste of copper is. Ah! Iron! Yes, I can detect the iron in the blood. It’s faint, though.
Although the taste of the blood isn’t horrid, I know that I would never be able to take more than that delicate sip. The blood has a distinct texture that does make my skin crawl. It’s thick and there are… things in the blood. Disease.
Blood carries and transmits… someone’s voice echoes through my brain.
I take another look at the blood on my hands and I feel less fascinated by it. It seems as though I can see what’s bad and deadly within that crimson splash and I feel sickened by it. Dirty, even.
Just as I start to go with instinct and brush the cooling blood from my hands by wiping them down my dress, I stop. No, I need it OFF of me.
Rising from my kneeling stance I look around for something upon which to wipe my hands. As my eyes dart about, I am now holding my hands as far away from my body as possible.
Water would be best. Cleansing, but there is no water here. I should have thought of that, I mutter to myself as I take a step. I stop as my eye is caught by the remnants of clean cloth. It will have to do.
In moments much of the blood is gone, but I can feel that it has stained my hands.
A spot.
I take up the cloth and scrub at the spot I perceive. As I throw the soiled cloth from me I realize I can still smell the blood upon my hands. I bring both my hands to my nose and sniff and am assaulted by the scent of copper, salt, and iron.
Perfume. That would take away the scent. I run to my room until I find my strongest, yet most sweetest scent. From the deserts of Arabia, its fine oils I pour onto my hands.
Another spot.
Water. I must wash my hands, cleanse them of my cruelty, my sins.
There is water nearby my room and as the clear liquid splashes over my hands I take the soap and scrub the skin until it is nearly pink with my exertion. It is soon finished and the water appears shadowed with the blood.
Still, I smell the blood and to my horror there are more spots to be seen.
“Come, come, the deed is done,” a voice demands, but I know the sorrow of my actions for I shall be haunted and damned for eternity.
