Not Guilt

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'I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.' 

I sat still as I read over those words for the millionth time. Looking for some clue, some deeper meaning. As one stare at the art in an exhibition. To try and interpret the emotions and the thoughts of an artist. As I continue to look into it, I wait for the words to move, to disorient into something cognizable, something meaningful. But in all their glory they remain still. 

Maybe it was art. No, it was art.  The last of its kind. Like the Monalisa, this painting too had gained its popularity for its story. It had nothing special. It was just a couple scribbles on a canvas. But its story.  I had taken the whole world by storm. I sighed and looked at its name.

It was called the "Not Guilt". I snicker. Just then my phone rings. I look at my watch and get out of the Exhibition. Being a cop makes you see many bizarre things. I reach the City Hospital and walk to Room. 632. I fix my tie and then open the door. 

Inside I see a young girl. Fourteen, no, fifteen was her age in the documents. Her hands held her head and she flinched at the rattle of the door. I pulled a chair from the corner of the room and sat down.  I looked at her black knee length hair touching the floor. Her face was childish, but her eyes were a deep savage red. I felt goosebumps at the sight of her. 

'Disgusting' I thought.

"Cruel", she whispered.

"Indeed. But I don't show my sympathy to convicts."

She laughed. It resonated through the room like a monster's.

"Enough of the chit-chat. You may have all the free time in the world since you are not yet behind the bars, but I am incredibly busy trying to put you there. So, why did you kill her?"

"I am sorry." The same old reply.

It had become a ritual of sorts. A dainty routine one would say. I would ask questions and, even after eight sessions every time, we would fall back into this chant of nonchalant and sometimes even sarcastic sorrys.

"You wouldn't have done it if you were really sorry." I say clearly used to this.

"I am sorry." Again.

"You stabbed her ten times." I state.

"I am sorry." She speaks.

"You could have saved her."  

"I am sorry." She smiles.

"Why did you choose yourself?" I press.

"IT WASN'T MY CHOICE! IT WAS HER CHOICE. SHE CHOSE TO SACRIFICE HERSELF. IT WAS NOT MY FAULT. I WOULD ALWAYS CHOOSE HER." She yells, fake tears streaming down her face. She wants me to be kicked out.

"Sir, the patient needs rest." A nurse comes in and fulfils her wish after hearing the commotion.

"Well, I guess that's my cue to leave. See you later." I get out as the nurse approaches her to comfort her.

 "It's about time you stop torturing my daughter." Her mother slaps my face as I reach the reception. And what follows is a plethora of insults and curses.

"I am sorry mam, but I am just following the protocol. And I hope you address me as Officer Liam Miller. For that is my name. And mam for the last time that is not your daughter."

I earned another slap as a reward for that reminder.

But it was true. That girl in the ward was not this women's daughter. She was a monster. One my sister made. The monster who killed her creator. The monster who killed Anvil Cross.