Red Hands

Red Hands

I wonder if I am the only one that sees it.

Wondering if we’ve just become accustomed to the smell of murder, sound of death, and sight of anguish, living in our blood red world. I find I can’t even look at people’s hands anymore. Not even my own. The sight of all that blood horrifies me.

Sickens me.

It’s worse at night.

I walk the streets of the city, drowning in the watchful eyes of the buildings but unable to escape them. I walk and see it everywhere, the bloody handprints of society. On the shoulders of a homeless person, pushed down to their knees in supplication. Across the bodies of the young, the lost, the damaged, as predators mark them and paint their bodies with their sick lusts. I see it on the faces of young women trained to walk with their heads down, faces hidden, the red palm prints peeking through their hair. Brilliant across their cheeks. I see the blood smeared across the mouths of men with poisoned eyes and wicked smiles. Madmen carrying bombs in their hands, knives in their hearts.

The horror of it all is staggering.

We have soaked this earth with so much blood we’ve made it a vampire. Needing it. Craving it. We feed it our bodies, our life, in sick acts of worship and damnation, giving thanks and hate to the only god we truly believe in – ourselves.

Everywhere I look I see bloody handprints, or pools where the blood has dried only to be covered with more blood and more after that. Our guilt is everywhere. Our sins our legacy.

In the evenings I’ll sit on my porch and hear the city screaming, an animal sound both pathetic and dangerous. The sound of a wounded thing in a corner. In the distance the city glows with red, as if on fire, but the awful truth is it’s almost worse here in the suburbs. The blood covering everything until this becomes a red world with red people and red horror. People wading through the blood to get to work, or to their cars. Children playing in blood like it were water. All of them oblivious to the red around them.

Are we all so blind or just accustomed?

Can we not see the red or do we choose not to?

Have we forgotten how to see pain? Even if it’s our own?

There is no place safe anymore. No places of green, or blue, or even the gray of concrete. No place safe from our bloody hands. We’ve covered it all like children marking our toys, or animals marking our territory.

There is no beautiful sleep, no great art, no lasting architecture, and no timeless message of hope.

No.

Ours is a legacy of blood, and I hold that proof here in my own red hands and stained body.

In a world where we are all guilty, where we are all damned, all red, we need not a savior but a safe place. A place of green and gold and blue and bronze. A place where hope still lives and can yet spread.

A place that may not exist anymore.

But if we don’t find hope soon, we’ll all simply drown in our legacy and leave this vampire world to wait for more victims.

On my knees I pray, to you, to me, to all of us, and hope that someone hears me, and tells me how to wash this red from me and all of us before there is no other color left.

…c…

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