Crimson

I was being followed; not by a person, but by the feeling of what I had just done. My heavy feet tapped against the wet pavement, a light evening drizzle coating my clothes and hair. My shaking hand reached up to draw the strings of my hood, tightening it over my pale face. My stomach churned; I was gasping for a breath of relief that would not come. Shadows of memories came over me that seemed darker than the night sky. My hand was over his mouth, covering his muffled screams. Crimson blood seeped out of parallel gashes on his arms and caked beneath my fingernails. I tightened my grip on his mouth, my other hand creeping down to the nape of his frigid neck. I gulped, the first audible noise I had made all night. With a swift movement, I twisted my hands in opposite directions, a snap ringing through the darkened alleyway.
Sure, I had done this plenty of times. It had become my occupation, each limp body falling to the pavement like sand in my fingers. I was used to the different types of reactions. Some greeted me with fear, others with relief. I had seen an array of human beings, each unique in some sort of way. Many had tattered clothing, nothing in their bags but syringes, sticky with sin. Some were professional, with families and beautiful white mansions. They payed thousands for the most beautiful black crystals, emerging into the light to go back to work when the transaction was made. One thing I had learned in all my years was that the tattered and the rich were no different than each other. They both had the same demons- the same sunken look beneath their smiles. 
I often found myself in hospitals, with white walls and the beeping of monitors echoing through the hallway. I took care of more children than I would have liked, standing by their side as they took their last breath. Most of the time I would put my hands on the shoulders of tearful family members, but other times it was just me and the frail container of a soul that once held so much life. 
Even with my occupation, I have come to know life as the most precious gift- one that many throw away for their own selfish desires. That is why they must pay the price of death. Many become lost souls, placing their own trembling hands over the loved ones they took for granted. Others leave the world immediately, but I never deal with them. They leave the world on their own terms. 
A shiver runs up my tired spine, the millisecond of guilt is forgotten by the sound of another frail body calling my name. I run through the alleys and back roads so as not to be seen. I approach the body, her shortened breaths graze my ears as my eyes travel down to the needle stuck into her throbbing arm. "I'm ready," she pleaded, her green eyes gazing up at mine. I reached out my hand, walking toward her slowly. She was silent as I placed my hand over her mouth in habit. Her breathing slowed and her body became freezing as I placed my free hand on the nape of her neck.