There’s a saying about “hands dipped in blood up to the elbows” that describes men like me. However, in my case, I earned that depiction long before I was considered an adult in the eyes of the law. Now? Now, I’m so submerged in blood and death that the stink of it is permanently lodged in my nostrils. I won’t dare set my dirty hands on something so pure and innocent as her, even if it’s just to feel her hair. For me, she’s like a treasured painting in a museum, open to view, but marked with a brass sign warning “Do Not Touch.”
I look back at her lips and notice she is muttering something under her breath.
“Don’t faint. Don’t faint. f**k, I forgot to put on the gloves.” Her voice is barely audible, but I can still detect a slightly hysterical tone. “Don’t faint. Just don’t f*****g faint.
