17 BLACK | HS

THREE

Miller Langley

Guilt.

The feeling of being responsible or regretful for a perceived transgression, real or imaginary.

I don't have any recollection of ever truly feeling guilt in my past.

There have been plenty of mundane moments throughout the years, little trials and tribulations I've gone through that would've wounded someone normal. Things that would've put most people into an apologetic, regretful mess. But that's just not me, and it hasn't been for as long as I can remember.

Back when I was about eight years old, after moving to LA with my dad and around halfway through third grade comes my best example. These two little bitches had been making fun of my name all day. Asking why I had a boy's name. Why my parents named me after a beer– Miller Langley/Miller Lite, they thought they were so clever.

Towards the end of the day our teacher, Mrs. Richards was called out of the room for a minute. During the small time she was out the two girls made their way to my desk and decided it was a good time to poke the bear, i.e., me.

Having had enough of their teasing– not because they were hurting my feelings, more so because they were just fucking annoying– I squeezed my fist together as tight as I could. Turning over my left shoulder, I punch thing one in the cheek, leaving behind an indent from my ring clad hand. When I moved to repeat the action on thing two, she had moved back with her hands up in a surrender.

Now, most kids in my position would feel some sliver of guilt, or regret for punching her and scaring her perfect porcelain skin– but not me.

The only moments it's crept up on me revolve around the anniversary of my mothers passing. It's not something my dad and I discuss lightly, or at all really. The times I've had any semblance of the feeling, it's been more of a physical pain rather than an emotion that overtakes me.

The feeling starts at the back of my head, where my spine meets my skull. It pulls slowly from there and spreads through my whole system like the blood in my veins. Up through the back of my head and around to my temples. Down through my spine and infiltrating every muscle in my body.

It feels sore. Like I've just worked out for 24 hours straight and it's suddenly all hitting me. It feels tense. Like every single muscle is having its own mini cramp or contraction. It feels hot. Like poison running through my veins.

The one time I let it overtake me was a night I'll never forget– no matter how hard I try.

Since then I've come to discover my own methods on how to numb the feeling.

However, no matter what happens in my day to day life, who I kill or any other action I make, nothing ever brings that back. Any affinity of guilt sits around that dreadful day, hence the funeral trips.

The urge– not to feel that poisoning pain– but to feel anything. The thought that even just the possibility of that venom running deep might make me the slightest bit more human, keeps me coming back.

And now here we are. Another day, another funeral.

Every time I come to one of these I feel the slightest bit of hope bubble up inside of me. Maybe today will be the day. Maybe today I'll start to feel sorry for the families or regret for what I've done. But it never comes.

I won't lie and say that while getting ready for today's unique funeral, more hope than I might've ever felt flooded my being. That being said, it still wasn't much. But I'll be honest and admit I was optimistic that the fact that he wasn't who I intended to kill... that he was "innocent," compared to the others, might've had a little pull on my blackened heart.