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I couldn't get the damned dirt off of my hands. I scrubbed for hours on end and the only thing that would pass in front of me was the pain and embarrassment of what had happened. Quite frankly, everything would be just fine if what had just happened never happened. Ever. How was I going to explain this to my friends? How was I going to tell my parents that I was never going to come home. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. So I kept scrubbing. My hands were to the point of blisters. Although all of the grit and grime was gone,the atrocity still remained. Gross, vile... I wasn't sure what to do next.

I could call a cab, or a van of Mexicans you would find at the corner of a home depot in the middle of Texas. Both would suffice. As long as I didn't have to tell them what happened. As long as no one knew what went down today.

Before I know, my face might be everywhere. I would have to see my face everyday until I was found. Found would be a word to lightly express how people would man handle me when they found out I was it. I was the one. The one who killed Mary. My poor, lovely Mary. She didn't deserve it, I didn't deserve it. Who am I to say such things? It made absolutely no sense. I don't remember it happening. All I know is that I woke up, and there was blood everywhere. On my hands, my shirt. Her face. Her angelic, sweet face.

I refuse to admit to myself that I did it. I know I didn't do it. I am sure of myself that I didn't do it. I couldn't have. I loved her. She was mine. Forever.

Created: Aug 17, 2012

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