Guilty Water – SHORT STORY

cliff storm

I felt dizzy. When I was able to open my eyes and look down, I saw the angry dark waves pounding at the base of the cliff. The rain continued to fall as I inched closer to the edge, moving onto the wet rocks tentatively. The sound of blood coursing through my ears mirrored that of the crashing sea, thumping away along with my heart. A light wind stung my unshaven face with salty abandon. I looked down at my hands and saw that the red had yet to wash away. Holding them up for inspection I watched in fascination as the rain diluted the remaining blood, turning the drips to a weaker hue, which were whipped away in the wind, down into the sea to disappear, evidence battered into untraceable parts per million.

I now stood, more swayed, at the very precipice. When I closed my eyes again I could hear the waves calling me, beckoning me to join them, to be a part of them and their watery angst. I looked at my hands again, not a trace left but there were some splashes on my khakis embedded, the sort of stains that only a severe washing machine could lift…the sort of washing machine that lay before me, ready to rinse and repeat until not even my body remained.

At that point the needless taunt jabbed at my conscience – You can’t even swim!

In life sometimes you need to try something before you know if you can do it or not. He deserved it. I’d just shot a man I hated. And the sickener is, I still hated him and now I hated myself. I’d seen the racist cop dodge two murder charges. I still couldn’t decide if it was justice.

The crime scene wasn’t exactly lacking in DNA. A cliff dive seemed preferable to a life in prison and the media scrutiny, coupled with friends and family unable to look me in the eye, unable to understand why…well that, that kills me.

So I leapt and let gravity work its magic.

Can I swim? Maybe. Maybe I won’t even try.

13 Comments

  1. Your writing style is that of the authors I sometimes discover in libraries and bookstores; the ones that I value for being so vicarious, the ones I cherish for writing out thoughts previously believed to be mine alone, the ones I vow to keep as my treasured secret for fear exploitation or under-appreciation. Beautiful work.
    AP.

  2. You really have a unique style. This one is really depressing, yet I can see how a person would feel exactly like this. I believe that the best writing “sounds” realistic. Great job in being real, and thanks for the links in previous post.

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