Work Text:
You try to wash the blood off your hands but it’s dry. It’s gotten under your fingernails, pressed into the lines on your palm, and it won’t come off. You scrub and you scrub and you scrub, with cloths and wire brushes, but it doesn’t come off, no matter how hard you try. You watch as your own blood slides down your fingers and into the drain. It tints the stained porcelain like glass windows in church halls.
You try to wash the blood off your hands but it’s his. It’s under your skin and it’s pressed into parts of you that you didn’t know you had anymore. You try to scrape it off but it’s a part of who you are; his blood is your blood, his pain is your pain, he is yours. Was. But his Fall, that’s yours. That was because of you. You watch as your blood comes to the surface to colour your skin and mingles with his. You wish you could have been this close to him while you still had the chance, while you were still righteous enough to make an angel fall for you in more ways than one. But you were never a place for love or faith. You were always the darkness.
You try to wash the blood off your hands but it’s yours. It’s pumping through your heart (slower, slower now, steady and rhythmic) and your brain. You want to tear it out but there’s too much already, so much all over the bathroom floor and in your veins and on your hands. You want to wash it off, get rid of it, forget about it, but you can’t. It’s yours and it’s his and it’s everyone’s and it’s not going to scrub off, it won’t let you forget what you’ve done. How many deaths you’ve caused.
You try to wash the blood off your hands but it’s everywhere.
You try to wash the blood off your hands but there is no blood.
You try to wash the blood off your hands.
You try.