BT Monologue

polkster's version from 2017-08-25 06:56


I suppose, in the end, it was my fault.


It still stings. Stings when I wake up, stings when I’m in the shower, stings when the wind whips at my face on my long, cold trek to work.


I shouldn’t have done it. I know it. Though I can’t help but think my punishment is a bit …overdone, perhaps, I also know that in the end, my actions were the crime that caused it.


I have tried to make amends. Lord knows I’ve tried to make amends. Every day of my life is another attempt to repair things. Most of the time it is like painting with gold over rust, the rust comes back. The other option, lying in bed and crying all day, doesn’t pay the bills. No matter how much I wish, it did.


And so I’ll continue crying on the inside. Weeping silently at the copy machine or in line at McDonald's.


But I’ll remember, too. Just as surely as the other good-for-nothing people I call friends remember in their gazes and tones in our daily interactions, I’ll remember. I’ll hold onto my little shard of hatred—wincing when I squeeze too hard, and it pierces my fingers—and I’ll let that fuel me through the rest of this thing I call life.


I’ll remember their initial reaction, the shock and anger they displayed in dealing with me. I’ll remember their bitter coldness. I’ll remember the government that seemingly runs my life now, the way they consult and conspire only when I’m out of earshot. I’ll remember it because, without the memory, living doesn’t have much of a point, as sad as that is to say.


Friends: I am sorry for drinking the last Bubble Tea. May I suffer for what I have done.