The Reaper - Simon Riley

II - Lament

A/N: I'm very nervous about writing this story for some reason. I just hope I haven't lost my touch!!! Haha.

TWs at the end of the chapter.

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I was reaching out for Danny, my fingertips grazed his shirt before he got shot... over and over and over.

The blood pooled around my body, seeping into my clothes, into my skin, into my fucking mind. I felt it. It was warm. I could never wash it the fuck off. I started to scream as I laid in the forest. Get me out! GET ME OUT!

"Alexandria? Shut the fuck up." I was being shook, I jerked up into a sitting position.

My body was drenched in sweat. Matt was next to me in bed, a look of disgust plastered across his face. The red numbers behind him on the clock read 3:34 AM.

"Jesus Christ, you going to do this every night?" Matt hissed.

My heart was still beating quickly... my breath was rapid and erratic. I looked from him to my hands. I needed to wash my god damn hands.

"I'm sorry." I whispered. I clenched and unclenched my fists over and over.

"Yeah, whatever. God. Go sleep on the couch." Matt groaned, turning around in bed.

I was trembling. I stood up and my legs felt like jelly. I stumbled to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror was broken. I was broken.

In the reflecton, my face was worn; the lines of worry and exhaustion etched deeply into my facial features. Dark circles clung under my eyes, testament to the sleepless nights and restless thoughts that traveled through my head.

My lips were cracked, broken, and dry. I looked like a god damn mess.

With trembling hands I reached out, my fingertips grazing the cold glass. It was a stark reminder that I existed, the person I used to be and the person I had become these last few weeks felt connected for that split moment.

My hands felt dirty. I turned my hands over, the lines of my palms seemed to spell out the story of that night, etched in invisible blood that only I could decipher. A constant reminder of the choices I made and the outcomes that I now faced.

I ran hot water, I watched it steam and fill the basin of the sink. It hurt but I shoved my hands under the sink, scrubbing and washing.

I scrub my hands vigorously, using soap that lathers into a foam but it doesn't stop the friction between my skin and my palms. Each scrub is a temporary step towards relief, escape from the overwhelming despair I felt.

It felt like minutes before my hands started to sting. The repeated friction and exposure was stripping my hands of their natural oils and softness.

My hands trembled once again when I stopped the sink, drying my hands off on a nearby hand towel.

I gripped both sides of the sink tightly - so tight my knuckles turned white underneath the raw skin. My eyes shut tightly, I wanted to scream. I wanted to let it all out. I kneeled on the cold tile floor slowly.

The air was heavy with tension that was almost palable. I sat there, huddled, my body trembling with suppressed emotion. Silent sobs wracked my frame, each convulsion was worse than the last. My shoulders were heaving, my chest was rising dramatically, trying to find a rhythm in the midst of the chaos.