Guilty Conscience

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
No, this did not actually happen to me! But it's about a girl confronted with claims of assisted suicide...that she would have helped her best friend kill herself. It's an internal dialogue with herself, and her harsh conscience.

Submitted: May 22, 2008

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Submitted: May 22, 2008



“I am your conscience, the voice inside your head. You know why I’m here. I have come to show you what you have done. I want you to feel the guilt. You know it’s your fault. Why did you push her off the bridge? Why didn’t you refuse to help her? Why did you agree to push her to her doom? Why didn’t you tell her that she would be missed? You could have saved her. You should have told her that jumping wasn’t an option. You should have told her that it wouldn’t take away the problems. You should have dragged her off the bridge, have refused to help her. You should have done something. But you didn’t. You just stood there and pushed her when she asked you to. You know it’s your fault. She wouldn’t be dead had you done something else than mutely agree to help her. She would still be there, laughing with you, dancing through life, wiping away your tears when you needed her. You have no one to blame but yourself. She died because of you. You are a murderer."

Murderer. Your fault. Murderer. Your fault. The words beat an endless tattoo in my skull. I relive the nightmare. I hear a crash, the thunder before the lightning. I see her fall freely. I see the swirling waters of the river. And then, I see the white of her skin in the black of the water. And I scream. I see the red of her hair float at the surface, a web of blood, and then I see the real blood that drains from her face and leaves her cold. Cold and lifeless. And then, nothing more. There is nothing more than a ripple on the surface. A week later I stand in the morgue, nodding my head. Yes. It is her. Yes, that white, clammy corpse on the table is her. I remember that dress. She called it her flying dress. She wanted it white so that she could be a piece of cloud plummeting from the sky and landing, at last. Don’t you think I know that I shouldn’t have done it? Don’t you know that I regret it more with every night that passes? I can’t believe she’s gone. I’m sorry.

“Sorry won’t do anything. She won’t come back because you’ve apologized for murdering her. So what if she asked you to help her? You should have said no. She was your best friend, the one who was there when your heart was broken, or when you were nursing a bad hangover. She did so much for you and what did you give her in return? You killed her.”

Sugar coated pebbles slide down my throat, along with the waterfall of vodka that I pour in. The world spins, the pill bottle falls from my hand. I collapse, the floor hitting me hard. If she were still here, she would help me up, wiping away the sweat on my brow. I float above the world, my mind blissfully vacant.

"Running away from the truth are we? You know it won’t make anything better. Whatever you swallow will fade and it will all come back. You can never escape the truth. It’s your fault. There will be no heaven for you. You’re a murderer. There is no forgiveness for you."

© Copyright 2018 PhantomDancer. All rights reserved.

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