life

My breath comes heavy with the foul stench of regret. Each inhale pulls rot deep into my chest, where it settles as a burn that won’t ease. My throat tightens around an ache I cannot swallow, cannot release. Behind my eyes, salt gathers, tears that refuse to fall, trapped like the words I wish I could take back.

There’s a hollowness inside me, the knowledge that I did this. Not circumstance, me, my thoughtlessness in that moment before I spoke. Helplessness consumes me. The words are gone. They live in you now. I can’t retrieve them, can’t soften them, can’t undo the pain you feel.

Now, we both carry the weight of those words. It’s the shared darkness that burns inside me.

The fair was alive with laughter. You were the prisoner of the moment, celebrated for your charm, paraded through the crowd in jest. I was doing what I always do, heckling the magistrates, playing the crowd, keeping the performance sharp. It was all part of the dance.

My words were aimed at the jailers, not you. I was in the moment, in my role, riding the energy. I didn’t see you as the target. I saw only the Lizardman, his hands wrapped around the chains, leading you past my booth.

Words don’t care about intent. They flew from my mouth, meant for one person, and landed on you. And in that moment of performance, when everything was supposed to be light and silly, I became the thing I wasn’t trying to be.

You may pardon me, and I hope you do. Not for what it spares me, but what it frees in you. When I imagine your forgiveness, I don’t see my absolution. I feel your release—the moment the burn in your chest sputters, flickers, and dies, melted away by the bright light of heaven. Grief healed the way rain falls after the long heatwave, washing away the dust, clearing the air, restoring life to the downtrodden. I hope that you walk back into every room the darkness held. I hope for laughter with no echo underneath, joy at its full weight again, owing nothing to sorrow.

You wore chains that day, and they came off with the costume. Mine I fastened myself, and no hand but mine can work the lock. Even the bright light of heaven waits for me outside a door barred from within. The burn in my own chest will not sputter and die with yours. It waits on a harder mercy, from the one man least inclined to grant it. It waits for the day I forgive myself.

I hope I can do that.