*you feel your sins crawling on your back*
*you dance with your sins, just to see how it feels*
*your sins seem to have fun dancing with you*
*you crawl up your sins back*
*your sins aren't entirely comfortable with this turn of events, but accept it anyway.*
*your sins go off and start an emo band*
*they become wildly popular for their hit song 'dancing with my sins'*
*you are disappointed in how edgy they are*
*they say they're supposed to be edgy*
*they are literally sins*
*you tell them you wanted them to be a doctor*
*your sins no longer feel the need to crawl up your back*
*they say they want to be free to crawl up other people's backs*
*you yell at your sins that you never want to see them again*
*your sins leave you, dramatically dashing tears from their eyes under a broken streetlight*
*your sins write a hugely popular emo song about you and everyone loves it*
*you stand in your living room, weeping over a picture of your young sins, still on your back*
*you show up to their last concert, tears in your heart and an apology on your lips*
*they brush past you without a backwards glance, the only words that can be said those they don't have the courage to say*
*you snatch for a scrap of their artfully ripped plaid button-down*
*you mouth the words "I'm sorry."*
*they snatch their shirt away from you, choking back tears, and run through the crowd*
*they enter their trailer and collapse against the wall, one hand trying to support the weight of the thought in their head, as a single tear slips down their cheek. The camera follows it until it soaks into their shirt.*
*"I'm sorry.." they whisper.*
**end-credits scene. Adult sins knock on your door. They look a little older, the lines of their face harder defined. Their hair is no longer dyed black, but falls in soft brown waves. They're holding something. It's a cd.*
*Older you opens the door, shocked and silent.*
*they hand you the cd, and wait.*

*you step aside to go put it in your player, and they wait in the doorway, nervously fidgeting with air*
*the cd starts with a record scratch. And you hear it. The silence. A warm sort fo silence. And then your 18-year-old sins. "I'm sorry." 19. "I'm sorry." You hear all the years you never got to hear- the sad years, the happy years. The years when they dashed it off and the years when quiet sniffled break out int he background. The last one- the 29th- fades out. Your sins clear their throat. *
*"I'm sorry." *