Who I Am

This is piece centers around the main character in a mystery novel that I am working on: 


I stare hard at my face in the mirror. Scruitinizing it.  My light yellow skin with the wide, dark eyes and smattering of freckles across my nose. My origins are from New Orleans.  I'm the only son to an artist father and now dead mother.


Yet, I still don't know...who I am.

What I am.

And why the blood follows me home.  On my clothes.  On my skin.

And why I don't remember how the blood got there even though I can guess.  It's like I blackout for a few hours and wake up to shock of red covering me.



I'm killing or involved in a killing.  Of what? Or who?  My heart lurches at the thought.

There have been a string of murders with the same MO happening throughout New Orleans in the last several months. They say a serial killer is on the loose.

I cringe.  Could it be me?

I've tried psychologists, psychotherapists, even a hypnotist.  I fear what will be revealed during those sessions but the burning desire to know who I am trumps that fear.

You see, I'm tired of coming home in the early morning hours, exhausted, clothes stained with blood.  I'm tired of the constant scrubbing I have to do to get the blood off my clothes.

I hate living like this.  With this horrific unknown.

The blood.  Incriminating evidence.  Of what, though?  I want to know.   It's killing me.



I stare at my reflection in the mirror, then place my fedora on my head.

Oh, the irony.  I'm a private investigator and I can't even figure out the mystery that is me.

Until I do, I have to live with this nightmare.


I sigh sadly, turn and walk out the door.


This piece was inspired by a writing prompt from the red dress club which asks us to tell us what our character wants.