The Maker's Hands

What was I thinking? What was I thinking? What was I thinking?

The regretful mantra echoed in his skull to the crispy beat of his sneakers hitting the freshly fallen snow. The soles left checkered pockmarks behind while his two hands rubbed in front of him.

He suddenly stopped and stared deeply into his hands. On his right hand lie an ancient scar, deeply etched, stretching diagonally across a blood smeared palm. On his left was a fresh slash, a mirror image of the right, pulsating with blood that was gradually slipping to his wrist. After a few moments, deep red droplets began dotting the ground before him.

He knelt down. The cold snow and hard pavement ached deeply through his knees. He ignored the pain and placed an index finger into the now-colored snow. Blood trickled down its length. The pain in his knees now rising up his thighs, he began swirling the snow and the blood, in slow, deliberate circles.

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