Knowledge

[Skeptic]

I cannot wash the blood from my hands.

It stains everything I touch.

The heavy chains bind me and fix me to the cold brick wall.

I don't try to struggle.

Everything around me is grey

Except for the deep crimson on my blood-spattered hands.

The metal of the restraints digs into my flesh

But I cannot scream out in pain.

She has the key, but she is nowhere to be found.

People look through the bars of the cell,

Wondering why I've been locked away

And why I continue to stay imprisoned.

“The key is right here,” they say.

“It is well within your reach.”

Sure enough, there's the key,

Glinting in the dingy light of the prison,

But that key doesn't fit into the lock.

I don't bother to inform or correct them anymore.

They don't know what I know.

They think that my hands are clean.

I'm searching for a ghost.

When I think I've caught it, it slips through my fingers,

Laughing at me, mercilessly mocking me,

Leaving me to writhe in agony on the cold, dusty floor.

I wish to follow in her footsteps,

Let her lead me into hell,

Accept my fate with a smile,

Knowing that I deserve every last bit of it.

Instead, I continue to live in limbo,

No sign of damnation or absolution,

Feeling only the bittersweet ache of knowledge.

If only she knew what I know.