"Alas! it is a fearful thing
To feel another's guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
For the blood we had not spilt"
-Oscar Wilde
Hindsight is always perfect.
It's true, you know. Not just some sappy cliche some philosopher made up. In retrospect, you always know that you could have done something to change what happened, one little alteration that would have completely prevented it.
That's why they call it hindsight.
At first, its shock. It's 'no, of course he's fine' and 'she'll be back at work tomorrow'. Wrong. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt. They're never coming back. James and Lily are DEAD. D-E-A-D. Stone cold, passed away, six feet underground. However you want to say it. No matter how nicely you put it, they aren't coming back.
It's unbelievable. You can't imagine how it is to live without two of your three best friends. I can't imagine how it is to live without them. I still expect them, after thirteen years, to come walking around the corner arm in arm. And then they don't.
That's when it hits you. They're never going to be alive, ever again. They're never going to see their son grow up, never provide that son with any siblings, never know how much that son wishes they were here. They'll never laugh again, smile again, cry or hate or love again. They'll never live again. They're dead.
It's devastating, it really is. Death isn't something that you tend to think about every day. Death is something that happens to other people, far away. Not here. Not now. Not to friends, or family. Not to me.
But it has, and what's worse is that it was all my fault. My fault they died. If only I hadn't suspected Remus. If only I had suspected Peter. If only I had trusted myself to keep a secret. If only, if only, if only. But I didn't.
Will these hands never be clean? I can almost see the blood dripping from them, staining them, marking me a murderer. It is my fault I gave the secret to Peter. Why was it not I who died? Why was it them and not me? I do not deserve to live, after what I have done to them.
And yet here I am, dirty, wretched, broken, but alive. And everyday, the guilt hits me, hurts me, rubs acid in my wounds. I cannot bear to carry such a heavy load. I cannot bear to be the murderer of my best friends, however indirectly. It was my fault. All my fault.
And I will bear my guilt upon my shoulders until the day I die.