Photo Credit: Georgie Pauwels (Flickr)

By Carlos Miramon

It was never his fault in the first place.
She felt distraught, withered from the earlier rampage. Now she sat there, surrounded by the white-washed building. It’s been years since she’s been there, ultimately denying her own request to avoid any interaction with it. Much less it’s inhabitants.
Yet, there she was, and alone. He was inside the opposite room, waiting, and probably in a condition that would make her cringe. It’s not that she disliked him, she adored him. But the tensions that were present earlier still lingered. Wondering about the cause, she gets up and strolls throughout the building.

Falling into what seemed like a trance, concentrating only on her feet, and her mistake. She never felt such rage in any of her living days and nights. At first, she believed it was his mistake. His hand that had done the deed.
But she never believed it was her, an unsocial being that made her own decisions at wrong times. Creating faults that could only be blamed on herself. This was one of them.

She tries to convince herself that there was no way she could have prevented the accident. But there was. It was her fault for being so ignorant, not knowing well enough that it could have resulted in payment of his own life. Because it should have been her.

Sudden movement catches her eye, a small shadow that slithered across her own, then disappears into the dimly-lit room. His room. The feeling of trance still engulfs her, yet she presses on. Pondering, pacing, until she somehow reaches the entrance of the doors. Staring at it, she tenses up. Petrified by the unknown beings on the other side. The anger suddenly rushes back into her, taking over her mind and body. Leaving her unable to control her emotions, as she bursts into tears and stumbles through the doors.

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