I did it

Regret - Chelsea

The crisp autumn wind wooshes against my face, gently removing the hairs from my face and exposing my red, puffy eyes, still letting tears out. The sirens in the background have faded out, my mind focusing on the memory. I choke again, attempting to hold back another stream of tears. I look at my hands, those dainty, manicured hands. Those dainty manicured hands that had wielded the cold, black metal, the cold black metal of a GLOCK 19 gun. The GLOCK 19 gun that I had pulled the trigger off and the bullet came out. It came out of it's chamber and it hit her, stealing her life from her. The sweet, innocent life of 25 year old Paige Arias. My best friend. The memories flashed before my mind. Her hands up in the air and my arms extended and shaking the heavy weapon sitting in my hands, pointing at her head. I felt them come out, the endless streams of tears cascading out my eyes and my entire body trembling in the horror. I killed her. I killed Paige Arias. I killed my best friend. I pulled the trigger, and the bullet pierced through her chest letting the blood from inside her stain her shirt, her eyes wide open and googling at the ceiling. The gun is still pointing at the spot where she was. The spot where realisation struck me. She. Is. Gone. " No," I take a deep sigh. I drop the gun. "No," And I run out, ripping off the gloves and taking out a lighter, setting the cotton fibres ablaze. "NO NO NO!" I'm screaming now.

I'm back to reality. The moment after. Tears still cascading down from my eyes. I turn around to watch her limp and cold body being loaded onto the ambulance as her parents stand next to it, weeping inconsolably. I caused those tears, I caused the blood that stains the white sheet extended over her head. I did it. I shouldn't have. I'm so stupid. I'm a monster. More tears flow onto my face, rolling down onto my neck, forming a pool of regret. I didn't want to. But I did. And I killed her. I stole her beautiful, amazing life from her. It's unfair. I should be the one getting killed.  

In between my horrible pool of regretful thoughts, I hear light footsteps treading behind me on the crumbling asphalt, broken down by years of arid, Australian air sweeping it away, piece by piece and then a soft sniffling. And a voice spoke.

"Chelsea, hon," whispered the voice the voice. Mrs Arias. I couldn't face her. "It's not your fault." Except it was.

I turn around to meet her red bloated eyes and her hands shaking. She then approaches me and pulls me in for a tight embrace the sweet smell of lavender emanating from her.

"It's all going to be alright," she says in an attempt to comfort me. But I know it won't, I know I won't ever forget what I did to her. To Mr and Mrs Arias. To Paige. I don't deserve this hug, I don't deserve any affection. I deserve to die. I pulled that trigger. Someone who pulls a trigger doesn't deserve to live. Which means I don't. More tears. And yet she doesn't let go. She still wants me alive and well. The tears never stop, even when the ambulance drives away, even when Mrs Arias rubs my arm and walks her way back to her husband, who is sitting alone on a bench, his head buried in his hands and his hair wild and flying all over the place. I am still shaking with the memories, the memories that remind me of the horrible sin I committed. 

I know I did it. I'm the only one who does. The only one who knows that I killed 25 year old Paige Arias. A kind and beautiful girl of humble origins. The girl who was my best friend.

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