Stained

Clothing burns. Water washes away blood. Metal protects the drain from ash and sinew and bone, sloughed off as I try and try to come clean. No amount of scrubbing or fire will expunge what was done, almost done, undone by my hands.

And yet, I cannot regret it.

I can take enormous amounts of pain – a sick skill, but useful.  Long ago, I learned to set aside feelings and do what it takes to survive, to save innocents and sometimes the world.  But I can’t not feel around Nate, can’t bear his pain.

Someday, that will get me killed.

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