The Moment You Chose

(Think of yourself as dead.)

She sat holding a blister pack of tiny white pills. Swallowing one each day was her only proof that time was passing. Only a few pills remained, even fewer once she popped one into her mouth. She never opened the list of side effects, leaving it tucked inside the book she never meant to read.

The door creaked, breaking the silence. She choked on the pill. Coughing, crouched, she tried to recognize the boots of the unfamiliar figure standing in the doorway.

(You’ve lived your life.)

She hated routine. Yet she allowed her days to be dictated by it. The mundane overwhelmed her, leaving her unable to cope with the unexpected.

Her head hung between her knees. Breathing steadily, yet awfully loud to her ears. Chill ran down her spine. The figure hadn’t moved an inch. The clock ticked rhythmically. She wasn’t supposed to be home tonight. Her friend ditched her last minute. The door closed. The boots moved a step closer.

(Now take what’s left and live it properly.)

With a deep breath, her upper body snapped upright; determination palpable in her gaze. The broad figure lacked a face - but that was probably for the best. However, she was sure it had a face - bearing a twisted smile. It let her run to the kitchen, giving her a head start.

(With no fear, no hesitation.)

Her hands moved without thinking, grabbing the meat tenderizer on the counter. Knowing her survival depended on the first strike. One precise strike could end it all. Her only chance.

Unfortunately, the figure came to the same realization. A rough hand grabbed her, trying to snap her bones with sheer force alone. Cry of pain clouded her vision momentarily before her foot found the intruder’s stomach.

The two separated, panting heavily. The meat tenderizer rose into the air before slicing through it. Only to miss the target. The intruder pushed her to the ground. Her whole being shivered at the contact with the hard coldness. Pinned, she struggled to break free, refusing to let go of her only weapon.

Dismissible sound caught the intruder’s attention. A brief moment was all it took to turn the tables. She slipped free, wasting no time to strike. A direct hit to the head was enough. The flesh stepped back under the dull spikes of the tenderizer, crimson greeting the surface. The body fell to the ground.

She stood over the twitching body. Her hands moved once more. The wet smack on impact broke the surface, a dam of crimson pooling beneath her. Another strike followed the pursuit, now more brute and desperate — and then it was over, the room filled with silence except for her ragged breathing, the metallic scent hanging in the air.

Her legs gave out. The metal tenderizer hit the floor. Her pants soaked up the red, stained forever.

She had never imagined how heavy a limp body could be. The dead weight refused to bend, limbs catching as she pulled. Every step left behind a thicker, darker smear. The metallic scent raised her heartbeat. The faint smell of familiar cologne made her stomach turn. She kept dragging, half-stumbling, painstakingly making her way forward until the body hit the bathroom floor with a thud.

For a moment, she just stood there, chest rising and falling, watching the now thick dark liquid. Then she turned away. Abandoning the soulless, mutilated shell of a person on the bathroom floor, she returned to the living room.

(Owing nothing to the past.)

She unlocked her phone, making a note to change the locks. Before she could put it away, a notification flashed across the screen: New voicemail. She stood up, filled the kettle, letting the voicemail fill the quiet.

“Hey, I’m sorry for tonight.” The apology was expected. She leaned against the counter, eyes fixed on the rising steam.

“Mike called me crying...” Her friend followed up hesitantly, pulling her attention.

“I sent him to your new apartment so you two could talk before separating for good. I know you hate his guts, and I shouldn’t have given him the keys, but-”

The kettle whistled. She moved before the thought could form, swinging open the bathroom door.

The intruder on the cold floor finally gained a face.

“Mike,” she whispered, covering her mouth in disbelief. Her mouth filled with acid. She fell on her knees, emptying the contents of her stomach next to the corpse of someone she once carried in her heart so dearly.

The air was thick with the nauseating smell of chemicals. She scrubbed, mopped, and disinfected. Her hands scratched, burned from the bleach. Every time she passed the half-closed bathroom door, a familiar feeling welled up inside her.

(Let every day be the proof that you were reborn. No reset. No erase.)

Time caught up with her. Bright tape crossed her doorway. Cameras flashed. Strangers in uniforms moved through her home, their disgust barely hidden as they analyzed every inch of her space.

News articles grabbed readers' attention with exaggerated headlines.

A stranger’s gloved hand reached into the trash can for an almost empty blister pack of tiny white pills - birth control. The extent of her devotion to Mike. She continued taking the pill even after they separated, purely out of habit. However, some habits are meant to be broken. She once thought he’d be the last. And though she couldn’t be sure he’d been her last, she had made herself his.

(The moment you chose to-)

The courtroom was silent, air thick with judgment. Cold metal restrained her wrists. The outcome of the trial was already decided. Nothing she says can change it. Judge held onto his fairly expected question a beat longer.

With measured tone, dutifully he asked: “Do you plead guilty to the murder of Michael Rodrig?”

(-kill.)

Whispers filled the room. Her hands closed in tight, shaky fists. The absurdity of the question made her explode with laughter. A hysterical one. Her vision blurred as her chest rose and fell rapidly, sounds escaping her lips turning forced.

The gavel struck wood — once, twice — mirroring her own strikes.

She lifted her chin, the desperate, tear-filled laughter dying in her throat. She looked at the judge, at the crowd, at the hands she still saw stained red.

“Guilty,” she said. It was the sharpest, most honest word she had spoken in a lifetime.

Do you think someone can forgive themselves even when they’ve done something absolutely terrible?