His blood is on my hands, and I cannot wash them clean. In nightmares, no sun shining to comfort me, I see, again and again, my sword pierce him, unkindest cut of all.
I hear, again and again, his disbelief.
And, again and again, I feel the self-same agony I inflicted upon him.
I betrayed you, Caesar. Not that I loved you less, but that I loved Rome more.
I didn't think: I acted. I didn't feel: I killed. I didn't heed the warning in my heart: I listen, every night, to your question.
Et tu, Brute?
Then fall, Caesar.