A visit from guilt

She had seen glimpses of him many times before, but now he followed her day and night, with a purpose. He was different to the last time she had seen him, morphed into the likeness of someone she had betrayed. She knew why he was here, though she pretended she did not. She was guilty.

I saw him again today. He follows me. In the drab, dull streets of London. In my horror filled dreams of death. In my imagination’s fun play. In my cozy, familiar home. He is everywhere. I can’t stop seeing him. He visits me when I am wrong. 

I first saw him at the station. His harsh, accusing eyes glaring at me below his low, bushy brows, drawing me into the depths of aqua, shame and guilt. His fedora hat, stained with the blood of my sins, drooped low over his shadowed face, leaving me clueless to his identity. But still, I knew him. How could I not. When he had visited me before. 

I saw him next at the shop, a solitary figure among the rush of people, his eyes fixed on me. His raven-black hair swooped out from under his hat, dark as the feeling I tried so hard to bury, reminding me that it is never truly gone. I knew the truth, no matter how hard I pretended ignorance. The truth was like an ugly colour, no matter how hard I tried to paint over it, it would still stain the surfaces I had tried so hard to change. In his hand, he clutched a horrifyingly familiar blade, swimming in a layer of blood. Blood that runs in my blood. Blood that my blood spilt. The dagger reeked of death, clouding my senses, focusing my mind on what he wanted. The truth. But I would not give it to him.

I saw him a third time, on the bus home. He sat where I had sat, that night an innocent man had died, running towards me as I had run from myself, fleeing the one thing I thought I could always trust. Me. I had always though another would be the one wallowing in guilt in this moment, always suspecting others, never realizing that the one who I had never questioned, would be the one riddled with guilt. He wore a familiar suit, though it was black with hatred. I remember the stain of blood bloom across it like a flower, red on silky white, as I ran from the room, my hands spotless, yet covered with guilty blood. My conscience screaming with meaningless words.

I saw him a fourth time, as I closed the door to my home. He stood by my gate, sparking a memory deep in my soul, of another man, in another time, gazing at me with confusion in his eyes, his hands blistered by the years of care given to me. The sky was grey, and rain began to fall slowly as I closed the door, heaving breaths of fear. But I could not shut him out. I could not escape him. He followed me wherever I went. As I crumpled in horror at myself, he stood beside me, his familiar smell washing over me, the smell I had grown up with, the smell I had grown used to, the smell I had betrayed.

I saw him a fifth time, gazing into the mirror. His reflection leered over me as I stared at myself. What had I become? How had I done this? What was I going to do? Finally, I started to see myself as he did, from the unbiased judge. It scared me. I had never been looked at this way before, I had never seen myself this way. What could I do? Then I looked into his eyes. They sliced down my defenses and shot straight into my thoughts. He knew what I was thinking. And he knew the answer. The horrible answer. The thing I had tried to ignore for so long. I pushed the feeling away, but he would not be banished so easily. He followed my eyes away from the mirror and followed me further. 

I saw him the last time, as I closed my eyes to dream. He sat, upon a throne of sins: thievery, lies, betrayal and hurt. His blue eyes were ablaze with fiery water, boring into my heart, peeling its lies away, stripping it until the truth was exposed, ugly and honest, yet relieving and right. I saw him too. I saw his way of life. I saw his truth just as he has seen mine. I knew. His kingdom was built off lies. His belongings were fueled by hatred. His power was not real. 

So now I must confess. To stop him following me. He won't stop until I come clean. I must sacrifice this. Or I sacrifice my sanity. I did it. I murdered him. I murdered my father. And now I will pay the price. And only at that moment, did I realize. Guilt had visited me that day, and showed me something horrible, yet pure, something dangerous, yet vital, something evil, yet loving. The power of truth. 

So here I am. In front of everyone. About to do it. He’s here. In the crowd. Waiting. He knows what I am about to say. He knows his work is done. A smile flickers across his face. A happy smile. He has shown me the way. He has opened my mind. He has shown me myself, opened me up, allowed me to truly look at my actions. I am no longer afraid. I know myself. I can trust myself. I know what I need to do. 

“I killed my father!” 

And as the world stood still. As a thousand heads revolved to face me. As a thousand eyes widened in shock and disbelief. As a thousand throats caught their breath, gasping in shock. I could still see those bright blue eyes, blinking in agreement, as they began to lose their colour. The man who had followed me through not only the streets of London, but my memories, thoughts and dreams, was fading away, smiling contentedly. His work here was done. He had triumphed. The last of him I ever saw was a piercing look from those harsh, searching eyes, before he faded away into the crowd of anger.  

Finally, I was free from him.