I am merely a pawn, a pawn in a game that has spiralled out of control, a game of life and death. My innocence surrendered to the ceaseless events, my sleep masked with tortured dreams like the shadows that cover the night sky. With the blanket of darkness, my tongue mutters for itself when I say the guilt of a man's blood is leached within the creases of my fold. I wash, I scrub, I tear at the flesh on my hands, desperate to cleanse myself of the blood spilled in the wake of murder. But the filthy witness remains, stained, never to be removed.(Use a scrubbing motion) “Out damned spot! Out I say.” Encased in my own conscience I stand unable to escape , unable to endure it alone while it tears my seam to seam from inside out. Can these hands ever be scrubbed off the guilt, while they are covered in the blood, still warm, of sleeping innocents? It was with these very hands I held the dagger that tore life to shreds, daggers which reap their revenge. How am I to stop this guilt, the foul opposite of holy innocence? My hands are defiled with blood, fingers with sin,lips with lies, as by man shall my blood be shed. A creature, a sinner like myself, has no right to love, I am an object of disgust, of loathing. A creature as such has no right to be loved and must cease to burden other’s lives with her presence. If I were to die…