Collections of Embellished Fictions, Philosophies, and Poetry

The Guilty Party (Exposures, Part One)

December 30. 2019.

In evaluating the situation, it is, quite literally, all my fault. Perhaps it was a butterfly effect, stemming from a single event, which, upon reflection, is one I regret. Hitting him with the book was a start, certainly. Talking about him at school came next. Lying about it even though he knew, surely added on to my list of sins. Humiliating him in front of relatives, well, it was fine until I looked back ruefully in the midst of making a snide remark and noting a twinge of sympathy before finishing the sentence. The sympathy would dissipate soon, anyway, and come back with a vengeance at the end. Oh, I was certainly a factor, of that there is no doubt. Perhaps I was the sole reason, my "gossiping" spreading to the outside world where it mixed with the realities (that were frankly stupid, by the way) of the grade above ours. Why else would he be bullied if there was no match to start the destruction of the forest? They'd lap my words up like bloodhounds, I was known for my honesty, despite lying seventy-five percent of the time. They were press, and I gave them the perfect ammunition.

I do not deny my guilt, nor do I take the full brunt of the blame. There were others. Many others. I was a large cog in a small machine bent on his destruction. I am at most fault. I should think if I did not hold such remarkable qualities of manipulation and deception, this could've been ignored, averted. If I wasn't female and young and "helpless", this could've been avoided, and he wouldn't have acquired such a tendency to aggression and violence. It is this that proves his spiral into depression was singularly my fault, as all things should be. Perhaps my eventual death caused inevitably by my motor tics would be some sort of compensation for my misdeeds. The punishment of natural ignorance, payback for all I did to destroy and undo and tear him asunder. My end would be well deserved, surely.

His end would be nothing short of suicide. That is set in stone, for there is no other way he could go, no other way imaginable, that is. Our family's death, sadly, would all be in the hands of themselves. Mine, my motor tics, snapping my neck. My mother, her heart condition, furthered by her job (injurious to her health), and her eating habits. My father, stress and hypertension, and his job, which will only kill him quicker. And him, suicide, of any form. No form of it would surprise me, I feel. And I feel the greatest guilt of all would be that I would not miss them at all (save my mother, of which I do not hold a passionate aggression for). I would feel no remorse, but only guilt that I was the sole reason they developed these issues. I would die in disgrace, knowing I am at fault for the dismantling of our relations. The dismantling of me.

It would be fitting at this point to point the blame to another, saying they played a part, but it would be wrong of me to assume it was not all my own. My aggression and relief at inflicting harm on others may have come from him. The stress and anxiety, hypersensitivity and depression, too, came from his acts of anger on all of us. Though, knowing I should be the cause of my own issues, leads me to the conclusion that knowledge played a part in my own mental and physical destruction. Therefore it should not be acceptable nor appropriate to blame him or my family for my mental state. This should add on to my guilt and regret, if it can grow anymore.

What I should do is stop complaining and take responsibility, because I pushed the first domino. The onus is on me, and only me. I will continue to assert the blame on myself as a punishment for my unforgivable actions. There is no curing the epidemic I spread to him. He is a parasite, and he cannot stay, and I'm very sure he understands this. I am very sure he understands that we understand this, and one day he'll be gone. He'll be gone, he will commit suicide with me in the knowledge that I did this. It is inevitable, and I should ensure I will regret this for the short time I will be living, shortened by my incessant motor tics that will snap my neck. I will ensure my regret is well-deserved, and I pay the proper price according to the many mistakes I've made. This is my promise to live with my own guilt.