"Hardest of all/
is to forgive yourself for things undone"
~ 'The Coals' by Edwin Morgan
He cries, holding his head, pressing his hands against his ears—as if he could block out that awful laughter, that awful cold cruel laughter, inside of him. Rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, begging the laughter to stop. Just stop. Stop laughing at him. Stop mocking him, and sneering with that horrible, feral grin that He loves to offer so much.
"It isn't my fault." He quietly gasps, unable to stem the flow of tears. Why bother trying? He's already been reprimanded for the weakness.
'Of course it's your fault…who else's fault would it be…'
Kneeling on the floor, the boy shakes his head and curls into himself. "It's not me. He isn't me. I did nothing wrong."
The laughter, there it is again, rattling around inside his head, sending unstoppable shivers down his spine, raising goose bumps down his arms. And it doesn't stop.
'You're a terrible person…Look at all the sins, look at the lives. Just look how many people you've harmed.'
The words, hurled from an unseen mouthpiece, pierce him, each a separate knife driven into his soul. "It wasn't me. I didn't hurt them!" He cries, but images—no…not images, memories—flash behind his eyes. Crimes he knows he didn't commit, and yet there they are. He remembers them as though it had been today. And only he knows it wasn't him. No one else knows.
"I'm sorry." He almost silently whispers to the people in the memories, the people he hurt.
'Why apologize? Who could forgive you after all you've done? Who can ever look at you without disgust, knowing all the horrible acts, the crimes, that you've committed?'
"It wasn't me!" He screams, his voice echoing around the emptiness. He hates that voice, hates it more than he's ever hated anything. He hates it more than he hates himself. His own nails bite into the skin of his face, blocking his ears, trying so, so hard to keep that voice away.
But the voice always has a response to his denials…
'One would think that by your efforts to prove your own innocence, it would appear you're also trying too hard to not appear guilty. The innocent are proven innocent, little one…only the guilty claim innocence for their own.'
He moans, wrapping his arms around himself, as if to comfort himself when no one else would. Voicelessly he whispers, "I didn't mean to…I would never…I'm so sorry."
'You did, and you will continue, again…and again…and again. You can't help yourself, and who would ever want to help someone as horrible as you?'
He holds himself tighter, "That isn't true...You're lying." He says softly, still crying. Still showing weakness.
'Again and again and again.'
"Please forgive me."
A/N: The quote--note that this quote was borrowed from Fiver, who actually recommended it to another author, but what can I say? I had a plot bunny for it...sorta. This story is rather plotless--can be taken a few ways. It could be apology for not doing something you should've. But the way I interpreted it was that it was forgiveness for something that WAS done, just not by the person whom everyone blames.
I don't know where this came from, it was a 20 minute writing thing that came out like this. :) Who doesn't love drabble, eh?
