Remnants of Departed days

A stream of warm blood flowed to the tips of my surgical-gloved fingers, dripping one by one with each second. The heat and the traces of blood shed that left marks on my clothes are the obvious truth that what I thought I did wasn't a dream. I want to believe that what I have in sight is just a spilled red paint, but the warmth and metallic scent breaks that assumption. It's not a red paint. It's a blood of an innocent man.

An innocent man's blood.

Each drop of blood on the ground that flowed from my fingers reminded me of the words that my parents said.

"Anyone who gets in the way are enemies."

The words kept on repeating in my head, as if to slap me with the reality that this is the kind of life that I have. When someone gets in the way, their existence needs to be wiped out. An unexplainable heaviness in my chest triggers whenever the thought crosses my mind.

I looked around to see if my surroundings are all clear, ensuring that there's no single soul watching that might call the police. I dragged the dead man and lifted him into my car's open trunk. Traces of blood are left on the ground and my car, which gives me another task to clean up the mess which can be an evidence for me to be behind the bars for years.

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The wind blew strong as I stepped out of my car, giving me chills. A tall man with a dark, wavy hair and black-framed glasses who's holding a broadsheet lifted his head and folded the broadsheet at the sight of me. He looked at me sternly, as if he's staring down into my soul – which I believe, somehow make sense.

I knew this is coming.

He threw the broadsheet on my face, as if his way of slapping me, and it fell right on my hands. The headline of the broadsheet caught my attention and I felt a lump in my throat.

'GIOVANNI MORTALLA DECLARED MISSING, TRACES OF BLOOD FOUND OUTSIDE HIS HOUSE'

"What kind of idiot would kill someone just outside his house?" the man said as he walked towards me.

"What are you doing here?" I narrowed my eyes as he stood in front of me. I was already expecting for him to come here in the restaurant to talk to me, for he knows that I work here during weekdays. Yet, I still asked why he's here.

What an idiotic nonsense.

"I was only asking," he shrugged, keeping his cool. "I came here not as an investigator, but a concerned brother. I sense darkness all over you."

"I don't know about what you're talking about."

"Let's stop acting like fools, shall we? We both know what's going on. I know you're involved here."

I heaved a breath as his words sunk in to me. "So what if I am?"

Nate scowled in response to my confession. He stood in silence, as if he's processing his statement in mind before responding.

"You really should stop doing this," he grabbed me by the collar and pushed me against the wall.

"Lance, there are a lot of things in life that you can do, not this. You have a job as a chef. Can't you imagine how awful the irony is? You take peoples' lives, their bloods are shed in your hands. Yet, you do cooking for a living. How can you even feed people with your hands filled with blood? I'm disgusted by you."

I fixed my eyes on him, holding myself back from showing any hint of emotion. "Get your hands off me. I refuse to be mocked by you. I'm not asking for your opinion."

Nate pressed me to the wall even more with force, his eyes burning with anger. His hands that holds my collar were shaking, but he let go of me. He turned back in defeat, knowing how hopeless I am based on my words. I can imagine how it's like to have a mindset that justice matters more than mercy, yet, he's choosing mercy even if it's against his will. I was expecting him to beat me up after knowing the news, but I think he's being consistent with his words that he came here as a concerned brother, not an investigator.

"It feels like hypocrisy, you know that?" he pressed his lips together as he looked at me, his eyes still filled with pain and anger. "As funny as it sounds, the murder is just right in front of me, yet, I can't send him to the jail."

"Do as you wish, if that's what you think is right. As far as I know, I cleaned up my mess to leave no proof like I always do, but I no longer had the time to clean up the blood. I had to look for a place where I can bury his body to help his relatives."

"I can do that if I want to, but I want to tell you – I'll beg if I have to. Stop this. I can't stand seeing my brother killing innocent people to cover up the dark background of our family."

My tongue holds me back from talking. I have nothing else to say, for I am out of words. I am torn with the idea of stopping and doing the same thing to protect my family and this fact are always in my thoughts every time that I'm alone.

"Lancelot, I am the one who's assigned to work in this case, and I have enough evidences to point you out as the murder."