Not mine.
When it gets to the point where you're afraid of mirrors, you're out of chances. When it gets to this point, it's not living anymore. It's not even survival. It's punishment. No, don't ever let yourself get this far gone. There's no coming back. Never.
I can't stand mirrors anymore. I have to close my eyes or turn my head when I walk past one. Because I fear seeing myself, seeing this monster I am. I can see the menace in my face, the terrible promise. And the guilt in my hands.
Dear God, with my own bare hands I did it. These hands! Every day, I get up to live this life, this half life, for one more day. To pretend for one more day. To hold in the tears. And each day, I have to act like nothing has changed, like I'm still who I used to be. Like my life didn't end with his. At night, when I'm finally alone, his smile haunts me through the darkness. That cocky grin that used to make my blood boil now makes it freeze in my veins. And I remember the cloth of that old bandana beneath my hands. God, why didn't I let go? One too many times he laughed at me, one too many of those drinks, I don't even remember what they were, and I couldn't let go.
I don't know how I'll be able to stand this for the rest of my life, however short it is. This secret is burning a hold through my chest, and soon everyone will be able to see. I can't face it, living day after day, loathing myself. By the time someone forces me to look in a mirror, I'll have become so much of this monster I doubt I'll even recognize myself. I want to cry out to him, to tell him I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. How could I have done it? How can I live like this?
I can't stand to look at myself. Who could, though? Not after what I've done. I can't escape, I won't escape. I deserve to be punished. I have to. I have to keep living this tortured life, I have to hold it all inside me, let it burn its bitter, stinging way through my soul. Death is release, death is reward. Life is cruel justice, punishment that must be given. This is what I chose for myself, without meaning to. I chose this tortured life of secret guilt. I must endure, I can't run out into the night like I want to and scream it for all to hear. "It was me! I did it!
I killed Jack Kelly."