It's worse than the time she stole her roommate's last twenty bucks for a hit.
It's worse than the time she lied to her mom, telling her that she had an exam and couldn't make it to the hospital to see her. In truth, she had been too disgusted by her mother's decay to see her. She'd needed a hit to make that visit.
But none of those times could ever compare to this. This guilt was worse than the theft or the lie…this is consuming…this is unbearable pain.
She had committed a crime and he'd paid the price.
That first night, she'd lain in her cheap hotel bed sobbing for dear life. She'd wanted her mother morphine more than any other time in her life, but she'd resisted. She couldn't get him out if she was high. So instead, she allowed the tears to take over, to control her body…she spent the entire night crying. Begging God for a way out of this life, this pain that seemed to accompany her life. The guilt that always seemed to be her companion.
When the rays of the sun shone into her room that morning, she dried her face and forced herself to be strong. For him. Guilt
