It was mid afternoon of a gloomy fall day and it rained like it was the first rain after many years of a drought. The crash of the lamp breaking against the floor-boards echoed inside my head whenever they tortured me with these too frequent walks on such tainted ground. Left foot, right foot, you just have to get there, answer a few questions and go. Even though they're both dead now, none of that matters. Just go. Just get there. Every step I take brings me closer to the memory of it all. Don’t cry. Don’t let your heart skip a beat, just breathe. Breathe like that's all you know how to do.

I usually never make it this far. My therapist says I'm making great progress. I guess I make that easy to believe; she wouldn't think so if she knew my honest thoughts about what happened that night. She wouldn't think I was improving if she could see into my mind and watch my horror film of memories. My thoughts might make her need a therapist.
Truth is, I do not regret not helping him that night. My conscience does not persuade me to do so either. I guess I have a broken conscience, or maybe just a broken heart.. I just hate remembering how he yelled my name, "Monica!" How he pleaded for me to save him. "Monica?!" I hated that more than anything. "Why are you just standing there?! Monica!" I have realized, that memories are always worse than the actual experiences. He just kept calling out to me as I merely stood there gaping at his leaking body. There was a hole, perfectly mirroring the spot where his heart was supposed to be. To put us through all of this, he had to be heartless. Honestly, he did this to himself. And I was way too tired of looking like a fool for him, fixing his mistakes.
It's too late now though. Living with our mistakes seems to be the only way to resolve things these days. I feel like I wasn't suppose to be there that day.. Like things would have been different if I had gotten there earlier or even later, things would have been better. Maybe they would both still be alive and together. I could have found someone who was mine and only mine and they could have been happy with each other or at least tried. But, instead their bodies are labeled evidence of a crime that I will eventually be put on trial for.
Although it wasn't me who loaded the gun or pulled the trigger, I still feel the guilt of a criminal eating me up inside. I feel the guilt of two souls, never put to rest scratching at my feet each time they step, one in front of the other, against the ground. "And this is the room where it happened," I spoke out with a shaky tone. We had finally reached the crime scene, the living room, the tragic embodiment of my broken heart, where love was lost and ultimately given the death penalty.