idk how to word this in good way but like… killing someone who you’ve spent almost all your life with, who is a part of you just as you are a part of them, who no matter what you can’t quite imagine their death, and killing them just feels like a dream, like something unreal, until you see the blood on your hands and realize this isn’t a game, and they’re gone, and there’s nothing you can do to bring them back. living without them is something unnatural, and you feel as if you should have died back them the moment you watched them draw their last breath and speak their last words to you but no. you’re still alive, your heart still pounds against your chest, but what is it all for when you can’t take a single step without thinking of them? they were a part of you just as you were a part of them, and so even your own existence reminds you of your mistake, of what you did. there is nowhere to hide. even if no one else knew the crime - which they do, you can spot their looks, you know they’ll never forgive you

(it’s not even because of their death! even, no, soul doesn’t care about mind’s death, you catch the words under his breath apologizing to someone who you still aren’t sure is real, or ever has been real, but does he care about mind? he hates you. he has always hated you, ids, cysts, parasites, so it feels wrong to even think - his words are still cold and measured in cruel in that way which reminds you of mind, that biting sarcasm which reminds you of mind, {look at what you did to us} and us automatically translates to Whole because you can’t even remember the last time you’ve had a friendly conversation. you and mind were enemies, but still - you remember asking him for favors, the smile so close to making its way across his face if only he would LET IT, the games you two would play . YOU REMEMBER. but with soul? no. he would never even deign to get close.)

it’s as if some part of you has been cut out and buried in the same place where you buried the body. but no matter if you went out and dug out the evidence of your sins again, you’d gain nothing but another sight to lament over, another sight to stain the back of your eyes when you try to sleep. no matter how much you scrub the blood of your hands you can still overlay the image of them drenched, catch flecks of red when examining your fingernails, and then you remember what if was like.

what does it take? to kill someone so close to you? did you realize what it would do to you beforehand and accept it, or was it all just some game up until you were packing dirt above the body that should hold an expression, feeling just as cold as the skin you were gripping was.

I THINK I HUAVE COVID.