A Study in Red

It was clear what I had done. The evidence was all there. The bag, the stains on my shirt. I could easily hide those things, but there were two things I could not: the red on my hands and the guilt. 

It happened around midnight. I had a strong urge that I tried to contain, but, alas, I could not control it. I ran to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and seized the bag. It was all over in mere minutes. I was shocked and confused. I couldn’t believe I could do such a thing. I really don’t even know how it happened; the details are still fuzzy. 

I looked at my hands. My fingers…they were red. I immediately went to the nearest sink and tried to remove the stain. I turned the knob all the way to the left, relinquishing hot water. I pumped copious amounts of soap onto my skin and then thrust my hands into the steaming liquid. I scrubbed and scrubbed, but the red just wouldn’t come out. I wiped my hands on my shirt; some came off and inscribed itself to the fabric, but the color was still vivid on my flesh. There was no way of getting rid of it.

As for the bag and stained shirt, those were easy to dispose. But my hands…They would be what ruined me. Their red hue would immediately give me away, and if not, it would be only a matter of time before the bag was discovered to be missing. Yes, there was no escaping. People would soon find out who I really am: a stone-cold killer…of Hot Cheetohs.

* * *

This story is based on true events. Also, if anyone knows how to get rid of the red dust from this highly unhealthy  snack, I would greatly appreciate it. I seriously can get it off…


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