Innocent Blood like Black and White and Red

on writing dark fiction and children being mad about it
26/02/2020. total words: 556

there is blood on my hands syrupy sweet and there is blood on the snow bitterly cold, and i relish in the destruction, and for a moment, i am sweltering with the heat in a way i can’t escape. like iron chains over my grip and eyes cut out by adolescent crows looking for a breakfast. like i have committed sins far too great to be forgiven, and i know i am to be cast out, and cast away, and it’s not the punishment i fear but the ending of innocence.
it is always the ending, because the ending means you can never go back. because the ending means something changes too fast to catch the tide, and the snow is falling, covering up the blood, so rich, so rich, like flowers blooming as i watch the blood stain the ground.
suddenly, i find myself wondering when i forgave myself for this. is it my fault? is it not? does it actually even matter what crime i have committed? i am sure i did something. i have always, always done something for you to bring me to my knees, with my crimes splattered against the snow, like lightning in the fields that blacken everything. there are chains that hold me down and bind me here, bind me to stay, bind me to something and i am not sure what.
the blood looks a little like rubies, if you squint. if you see the sunlight reflect off of it and wonder why it is snowing if the hot forces sweat to drip off of me. when did revelry become a crime? when was it decided that i can be tried now as a skeevy straight man, as someone who knows better, as someone who should always have known that you were right?
because of course, i need to know better. i should know better, you’re younger than me and you know better, so why don’t i? because i do know better. i know it’s all okay, it’s a crime that can be forgiven, if the blood is my own or the body lying beneath the snow asked me to put it there. it’s all in the word, and if you can justify it, if you can point that no one was harmed unwillingly, it’s okay.
because chains in this case are only there because you asked for them, and i do know better. i do know better than stark white against the black of night. because the passion is the sweltering heat and don’t i love it? don’t i love the rush of the pleasure, of blood against the bone-chilling snow, the chill of my voice when i say get down on your knees.
not your knees, no, the other you - the one who knows better, the one who agreed to this. you’ll learn, i know you will. the chains will release, and the snow will fall gently, and i too, can be gentle. forgive me for being a monster, at the moment. i think you probably shouldn’t be interrupting the passion. after all, even though you opened the door and said yes to every question, twice and thrice and fourth again, even when we weren’t sure, you said it yourself: we didn't stop you when you wanted to be in the maze with the monsters.