Red Guilt

“Do you have any proof?” Harley Glared at Gareth with angry eyes.

Gareth pointed to the table. “I have this!” The knife sat there, stained a glistening acid red. Harley’s eyes fixed on it, locking in like laser beams.

“But I can’t be. A knife is no proof!” Harley shouted. With clenched fists she knocked it onto the floor with a clatter sending flecks of blood bounding through the air. “A knife is no proof at all!”

“But you’re dead my dear. So dead you might be alive!”

Harley looked at him, scared now. She ran her hands all over her body checking for any holes, any sign that she might be hurt, anything that would give herself proof. But there was nothing. The only sign of her apparent death was the knife gleaming on the floor.

“No! I had so much to do,” she began to sob now. A thick tear cut a shimmering line down her cheek, but she brushed it away and stood tall. “I want to see the body!”

“Still not convinced? Fine, I’ll show you, but you may regret what you’ve become Harley.” His smile spread, wide as a clowns and his eyes darkened into the usual black pools of madness she had seen on many nights like this one.

Everything felt cold as she approached the bed. Pools of red had gathered against white sheets covering only what could be described as a mound in the centre. Gareth beckoned her forwards, his smile white and wild in the darkness. She hesitated at first, unsure and shivering with fear. Finally she yanked the sheet back revealing her twisted, bloody work and Gareth faded into the darkness. Even to this day she can still feel his piercing, black eyes peering out of every shadow, like a hungry predator.