Your Hands

A Story by ohsograceful

a story in under 250 words

I had another dream about the boy I killed.

He was standing alone in the woods where he took his last breath, silent as trees and just as solemn. But something in his bearing gave me pause, an unnatural hunch to his shoulders, as if he was a wounded animal curling in on himself. Yet his face was like a shiny penny on the dirty sidewalk, as jarring as it was austere. I watched as he fell to his knees, still looking through me with that strange expression. His eyes spoke volumes, they cried love and forgiveness, but his feral body was out for my blood. It crawled and dragged itself in the most peculiar manner until he was at my feet. Slowly, painfully, he stood. His eyes never having left mine. He raised his hand as if to stroke my cheek, his fingers were always so delicate and careful, but now I saw his rope burned fingertips and ragged nails for what they were. My mama always told me that you could see a man’s death in his hands; whether they were calloused, dirty, and laid softly beside him; or smooth, fisted, and covered in blood. He always told me I had my mama’s looks and my daddy’s charm, laughing that he hadn’t stood a chance; but he was wrong. I was lost the moment I met him, because although his death was by his own hand, his blood was on mine.