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Enough

It's that familiar pang of panic that hits you in the gut. That terrible feeling that you have done something wrong, that someone else is hurt because of something you did. You wish only to take their suffering away from them, to pin your own dirty sin to your own shoulders, to trudge through the consequences yourself. It might make it okay if you bear these pains, pay for your own crimes.
Even though you have done nothing wrong.

It's another night where you lay sobbing against your pillow, tears streaming off your face and your head pounding from crying. One more failure stacked against you, one more tortuous day where nothing you do seems right. Those pieces you thought you had fit back together just crumpled as soon as the lurking curse stepped out of the shadows. Nothing you do seems to work, for bandages are temporary, and pain is permanent.
Even though you have done nothing wrong.

It's that cold stone standing alone in the grass, that fresh patch of dirt covered in the morning few. All you have tried has failed, and now there is nothing left but a small rock with words carved into it's polished surface. The cold nips at your face and exposed hands, though stands as nothing against the overwhelming wave of guilt crashing over you. You thought you had done enough, you thought you had fixed it. But now the ultimate price has been paid, a life given to the hands of death. You ask yourself the same question over and over. Why?
Even though you have done nothing wrong.




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