Blood on your hands – a flash fiction piece.

He held his full weight against the oak of the door and waited for his breath to return to normal, his bare feet were thumping along with his heartbeat, the run had not been premeditated. By the time he stabilised he could hear them going from room to room, each door giving way with a sickening crunch like twisting bone as it was sprung from the lock, it was only a matter of time.
‘I can’t let them catch me’ he said, which he internalised to mean ‘I’m not facing up to what I’ve done’.
Freeing himself from his held position he looked around the room for an exit, a way out, there was a single window that shot in the light of the near-full moon, it was the only option. Jumping up on one of the twin beds he went to open the window which was split down the middle by beading and a latch. It was locked. On the windowsill lay the key, gently rusting where it hadn’t been moved in so long and had just sat in a pool of condensation. He picked it up with some difficulty and then shaking took three attempts to penetrate the lock with it.
By the time they kicked open the door he had swan dived to his death.

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