Cockroaches

As he turned the faucet on full blast and began scrubbing his hands with the only soap available—dry, cracked, soap that smelt like his dead Granddad’s cheap cologne—he became aware of how difficult it was to remove blood stains.

What was so special about it, anyway? He’d killed thousands of insects throughout his life. Shot a deer that one time. Was he to feel guilty about that? And this, how was this any different? Because society had deemed it so, pah! And what is society except a bunch of people with no more moral authority than me. “Fucking cockroaches, all of them,” he said, hoping that the forcefulness of his speech would convince him.

It didn’t.