...I honestly have no idea where the hell this came from. It's three in the morning where I'm at - I have to be awake in four hours. I write best/weirdest when I'm tired and it's three in the morning and I have to be awake in four hours. I don't know. I like reviews. The end.
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Sometimes, she felt guilty. I knew she felt guilty, because I know her well enough. It was those times when she didn't meet my eyes, or joke around with me like we always did. She felt guilty because I reminded her too much of someone that neither one of us wanted to think about. But we did, and it was my fault. And hers. But mostly mine.
Sometimes, I felt guilty.
I always hated how she cried. I hated it because he was my brother, and I should have been crying too, but I wasn't. I didn't, not for a long time afterwards. I always sort of thought that that might have been something to make her cry more. I don't know. It was a long time ago.
But memories don't fade. Neither do secrets.
And then all hell broke loose for her, and I think it was my fault. I should have felt guilty, but there wasn't enough time for guilt.
Because, after that, it happened.
And I couldn't think of anything but finding her. It was probably selfish on our parts, my father and me. We were jeopardizing everyone left in the universe, all for her. She was worth it, though. Or at least I thought so. My father, it's kind of strange, he said that if it were me, he'd never leave. But he was going to leave, going to stop looking for her. I didn't cry. Except when he said it, his voice thick with the implication of the fact that she didn't mean as much as I did. Or something.
She did.
It made me feel guilty. Everything about it made me feel guilty. Especially the part where she flew the enemy ship home.
I was going to shoot her down? Well, frack. Just goes to show that I'm not all-powerful and god-like after all. I don't know everything.
But I was so HAPPY; it was almost like he had never died, like she was coming back from the dead, like the world had never ended. But then I realized how pale and fragile she was, how she wasn't same old cocky her.
It was like coming down from a high.
Sometimes, when I feel guilty, I wish the floor would swallow me up.
Now I'm sitting here, watching her sleep, holding her hand, because she asked me to, and right now, if she asked me to kill myself, I'd do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked. It's the guilt fueling the crazy, unconditional love, like oxygen on a flame. Sinister oxygen of arsonists. And I'm wishing that the floor would swallow me up, because she'll wake up in a few hours and realize that I've been here all night, and she'll get that guilty feeling, and then this whole nasty cycle will start all over again.
Wash, rinse, repeat. Swallow me up.