A Shadow of Guilt

There would be no forgiveness for me if they knew who I really was.

If they knew what I’ve done.

There’s blood on my hands, you see. Pooling in the palms, dripping off the fingers, running over my wrists and down my arms, and even though there should be an end to it, a limit to it – so much blood – it just seems to keep welling up there in my hands, spilling over and over until-

No. No. Push that thought aside. Bury that image. Bury it! There’s no other way to do this.

There’s blood on my hands, you see. You can’t wash that shit off. You think you can, sometimes, when you feel optimistic, when your mind is on something else, and just for a few minutes you forget, and you think you’re an ordinary person, who’s done ordinary things. Nothing to hide or hide from.

But no. So much blood.

Though there wasn’t, you know. In my mind, when it rages in my dreams, or when it just crashes down over my senses, the image is of rivers of blood, of soaked hands, a soaked soul. But there actually wasn’t that much blood at all. Surprisingly little. And what seemed like a small, slender wound. And yet his eyes widened and he made that sound. I can’t get rid of that sound, it’s on repeat inside my head, sliding around inside my skull, trying to find a way out. But it can’t. That little cough, that small, tight, strangled cry that was barely audible and didn’t seem like it encapsulated death.

If they ever found out about me, they might ask: why did you do it? Was he a cruel and terrible boyfriend? Did he beat you and lock you up? Pimp you out? Crush your soul with his vicious words? And I would have to answer them with “no”. Eyes all widened, mouths gaping: but why then? And then I’d have to tell them that I didn’t really know, that until that moment when I’d done it, I didn’t even think that I could or would. It wasn’t possible. And then, in those next few seconds, it was, and not just possible: done. Inevitable. Unrecoverable. I’d have to say that I didn’t know what had made me snap, where the anger had come from. That I couldn’t even remember what we’d been arguing about, or what it was he said to me that made me pick up that knife.

I do remember though. I can still hear those words. “I never should have left Ruby for you. I made such a big mistake.”

A big mistake. Here. Now, you’ve made a big mistake, mister. Now you have.

I had. So big. Towering. I know I just stood there with that knife in my hand, him on the ground at my feet, having no idea what to do next.

#

After my ‘good behaviour’, on account of my ‘youth at the time’, my ‘rehabilitation’ and under conditions, I was standing in the opening air again. More marooned than free. I felt completely lost. Who was I now? How was I supposed to pick up any sort of normal life and run with it? It didn’t even make sense.

My hair turned yellow. I don’t need glasses, but I started wearing them. Cut my hair – said goodbye to it all. There’s tricks with makeup – a different complexion. I compared the mirror to a ten-year-old photo: was the same murderous woman lurking under the mask? Did her eyes betray her in spite of all her efforts?

I still fear every day that someone is going to recognise me. Or put two and two together, or ask they wrong question. There’s hardly a moment when I’m not waiting for it, when I’m not sitting in the café downstairs or at my desk, half-expecting somebody to slap one of those newspaper articles down in front of me – there were so many – and demand to know if that’s me or not.

How long until somebody calls my old name?

#

I do that thing, where I’m walking along, on a busy street, and I’m sure I see him. I know it’s not possible – he didn’t have a brother, never mind a twin – but when I think I see his face the likeness is always so perfect. Or the back I see is wearing exactly the same jacket, the same faded places, the wear marks, the way it fits. I can’t help seeing him in the shape of some other man. And I’ve followed him at times. Called out to him on two occasions.

A man turned around. He looked nothing like Josh. He was older, bearded. He narrowed his eyes, looking at me, puzzled.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, “I thought you were somebody else.”

I fantasize about ways he could still be alive – some kind of mistake at the hospital, some kind of witness protection conspiracy. A cruel joke carried on too long. A death faked to escape an enemy. There’s no end to what a desperate mind can come up with.

Then I’ll think I saw his sister. Or his mum. Or dad. Or cousin. Or best friend. And it’s worse, because those ones are possible, those ones could happen.

Once. A couple of years ago. It was his mum. It wasn’t one of those false-alarm-imagined-sightings. It could have been at first, but then it wasn’t. She was standing right there, staring at me, through me, piercing me with her eyes. She was about twenty metres away, and there were plenty of people around – a stream of them walking between us – but we really could have been the only people there. The others all disappeared. The background blurred into black-and-white. All I could see was her, and all she could see was me. And she had me pinned, just with her eyes. Looking right through me and seeing all the guilt inside me, all the truth, the horror and the honesty of what I’m really like. It’s an ugly, dripping picture. I saw myself through her eyes. She didn’t have to say a word, her face said everything. It reduced me to dirt. And all she had to do was stare.

There’s a shadow of guilt that follows me around. It dogs my every step. Sometimes it has my face on it. Sometimes his. At other times it’s like a cloud, a roiling grey storm with arms and legs that matches my steps like a true shadow, its arms swimming out of its nebulous body to wrap themselves around me and keep me cold. It wraps itself around me and reminds me of who I really am.

#

There’s a guy who delivers lunches to the office. And he’s cute. He’s young and always smiling, and he’s got this aura of positivity that’s like medicine to a sick mind like mine. He always greets me with a real smile, calling me by my fake name. Asking me if I want to buy anything today. He remembers things about me, he’ll ask after my cat, or ask if I saw that movie on last night. Wasn’t that thunderstorm something?

I catch myself flirting.

Molly from the desk around the corner tells me in a stage whisper that he’s into me.

“Oh no, I don’t think…”

“I do. It’s obvious.”

“Oh… I…”

“Hey, it’s not a bad thing. He’s adorable. And I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

“Oh, do I….?”

“Mm-hm. Go on, ask him out. Test the water. I’m telling you: it’s warm.”

But how long before he saw or heard the wrong thing? How long before I might have to confess, might have to join some dots for him, fill in some blanks? And then, that look on his face, the colour-draining realisation. How can you ask a man to forgive you for murdering your last man? How can you ask him not to sleep with one eye open? So I look down. I get back to work. I turn my head to watch him walk away. The contour of his shoulders, the rhythm of his walk: for half a second, that could be Josh.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work