I had blood on my hands

I had blood on my hands. And underneath my fingernails. I had it in my soul. I was bleeding there, and it wouldn’t stop. When you watch someone kill a man, it changes you. When you’ve killed a man, you lose a little of yourself. As he enters the land of shadows, he takes a little of your light with him to guide the way home. When you’ve killed many men, your soul bleeds, and the more you kill, the more blood pours out of you, until you are a pale, washed-out thing. Not a man, or even an animal. Animals kill to eat, humans kill for sport. In our case we kill to eradicate. Vermin. That is what Jews are, we are told. Rats, thieves, and a subhuman race. I kept telling myself this; it is what had been injected into my head, and they tried to insert it into my heart. Everyone around me believed it. These beliefs were like a virus. Even if you didn’t believe it to start with, there was no inoculation to stop the spread of hate. Hate, visceral hate. I scream ‘Fuck!’ and ‘I hate you, you fucking Jew, I hate you!’ with everyone else. I feel it in my marrow for just a second. I know hate, and it is the Jew, I tell myself. The Jew is what makes us hate. It is where we can put all

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