bloody hands - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Forever I will be in that moment, my hands scarlet and sticky. There is the exquisite pain of loss that educates in a way nothing else can. It is as if your heart has been pulled from your body yet still beats all the same. Yet it is the proof of our love, is it not? And so it lives in me, the love that we shared, and with every passing day I recall our laughter and joy more than the moment your soul moved on.
The blood flowed thickly over my fingers, cold. She must have died sometime ago. I guess I should have just left her there, but how could I after what she had meant to me? Every time her corpse heaved more of the dark scarlet fluid ran down my hands until they looked like those of some abattoir worker. As her body moved through the dappled shade of the woodland she was alternately cast in light and shadow, her skin paler than it had been in life. When at last we came to the old oak for her burial my legs gave way beneath me and I held my hands to the sky, watching the dried streams that were her blood on my arm right up to my still red finger tips. That's when the tears came, fast, my entire body shuddering as if it meant to join her.
My hands were shaking so badly, the gun slipped right out of them. It landed softly on the body, then fell on to the concrete, but I wasn't watching the gun. Or even the body. I was watching my own pale hands, covered with scarlet blood. What type of person was I? I had already overwhelmed the small group of people, I didn't need to kill anyone. A small sob worked its way out of my throat and I crumpled to my knees, not taking my eyes off of my hands. My bloody hands.
The violent red stained my shaking hands. The colour burned in my mind along with what I had just done. A sickness crawled within me as I tried to wash the stains off but, just as in 'Macbeth,' the stains stayed etched into my mind - an eternal reminder of the act I had committed.
Blood coated Tara's fingers like caramel over an apple, only brilliant red instead of soft golden browns. Her eyes watched each finger move, entranced by the new colour of her skin. It felt no different from wet mud but it wasn't. She knew she should feel repulsed, eager to wash it off but instead she felt a laughter building in her belly, a joy like she'd never known. Killing, it seemed, was her thing. She was good at it. Already her mind flicked to possible next victims, churning over scenarios while she heaved the corpse into the pig pen.
Micky hadn't even noticed the blood on his own hands. In the blue glow of the ambulance light the skin in-between was ghostly pale and the blood streaks almost black, only reddish when the light shone right on them.
Jenny's hands became slick with blood, the red fluid loosening her grip. In the darkness they barely shone red, instead under the flickering yellow light above it was almost a sickly blackish-gold.
The blood has concentrated in the folds of her knuckles making the usually pale creases dark. The congealed red-brown fluid had become caught in the webbing of her fingers, whereas the rest had been washed clean away by the relentless rain.
From the splatters on Kaleb's hand Tia knows it isn't his, that this kind of effect comes from someone close by taking a bullet. His eyes are as wide as they could be without falling from their sockets but his body language is all business as usual. Tia reaches out to grab his jacket, to stop him carrying on so robotically, but he simply pulls the fabric from her fingers and moves all the faster.
There were days Ryan would see her blood on his hands and he'd have to shake his head to return them to their normal state. He knew the choices were hers to make but that wasn't how his brain worked. For him the man must always be protector, guardian, the one in the line of fire. For Claire to be in any danger was killing him from the inside and all the while Q just kept saying her skills were better, he wasn't right for this job. He wanted a shot, a chance to get her out of harms way but as the days ticked by his visions grew - blood dripping from his finger tips only to vanish into the cool autumn air.