So, I still feel the guilt.
A little of it is over what I did. The look on those people’s faces. The ones I had hurt and betrayed and smiled at. If I had killed a loved one, they might have looked the same. Then again, in a way, I had.
A little is over what I once was. How I couldn’t even imagine doing anything like this. Not even on the same scale. How I had laughed when my family had warned me of the dangers I would face. I had brushed off their concern and their worries. “I know,” I had said, “I’ll be careful, you know me.” I thought they did. Then again, I thought I did.
Mostly though, this guilt is over the fact that I’m slipping. Slipping happily back to the edge. The guilt is over the fact that I’ll do it again. That I’m not strong enough. Not even now. Not even after all the screaming and tears and curses. Slowly, I am getting closer to that edge and, when I fall, it will have been my choice. Then again, it was last time.
I will smile at those people again, and again they won’t smile back.