Blood on my Hands

bulldyke's picture

I'm not supposed to work on this this weekend, but my drama teacher gave us the assignment, and I was bored.

So, the assignment is this: You have to memorize a story, and act it out for the class. It can be no more than 2 minutes long, and your entire performance must be while sitting in a chair.

I was trying to figure out what story I'd do, and, since we're allowed to use our own stuff, I was going through my files, trying to find a good story. The following is the first quarter or so of a piece I wrote called "Panic". I'm going to be performing it in a few weeks.

Blood on my Hands

A bus refers to an ambulence.
This is the story of a young police officer who has just killed for the first time.

There are flashing lights all around; I sit still on the bumper of the bus, wrapped in a blanket. My chest feels tight, my hands are cold. I flex them slightly, but the movement only reminds me of what I've done.
People are talking all around me, but their voices seem distant, surreal. As though I'm in a dream. Yes, that's it, I'm dreaming and soon I'll wake up.
A distant part of my head, the part that knows what happened, tells me that it's not a dream, that I did—
"Officer," a kind voice says. I don't look up, trying to fight the screaming in my head. "Would you like to get into the bus?" The voice is gentle, like I'm a child. I get up slowly, my body aches, and I can't really get my breath. I stagger, and strong hands help me climb into the ambulance.
The scene is familiar; I've seen the inside of busses before. The small bed, the walls lined with medical equipment. I try to remember where each piece is stored as the large vehicle starts to move.
My head feels heavy, so I look down at the floor, and see my bloody hands. My eyes start to hurt. I can feel my jaw clench, and as I watch, the bloody hands begin to tremble.
Something bubbles up inside, but I can't let it out. Can't let it out. Can't let it out. I take a deep, shuddering breath, then another.
It's all okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Hands are feeling me, checking for something. I can't remember what they should be looking for. I jerk in pain when one of them touches my left arm.
"Broken, I think," someone says. The kind voice. I can feel myself begin to rock, back and forth, back and forth, shoulders hunched, protecting my arm. It hurts, I want to say, but my throat is blocked. My nose stings, and there's blood on my hands.
I begin to laugh at the irony of what I'd just thought. There's blood on my hands, and there's actually blood on my hands. But whose?

Let me know what y'all think!