Rest in Power

I found the body of the girl I had murdered. She was covered in a thick layer of dust, buried beneath years of neglected debris. I remember how I had cried out and longed for her death, how I eventually found a way to kill her. The energy of my discontent had festered, mutating into a serene and swift boldness when the moment came. A simple, steady choke, and her last breath slipped away. 

All I recall is that at some point, the whites of her eyes flashed with life; and in the ghosts that haunt this place, I can still see shades of her vibrancy clinging to the surfaces. Old memories flicker within the wisps of character-defining paraphernalia—a sad, unfulfilled promise to return home. I had forgotten that I ruined that too. In those final days, I placed these aspects of her in boxes, driven by a hurried, conflicting mix of optimism and desperation. 

It's amazing how life can still surprise you with its changes, even after you’ve sought them out. Somewhere within myself and the inner worlds of our family and friends, her memory lives on, but I know for a fact that she is beyond the call to be mine anymore. Inevitably, I ensured her demise, and time has a way of devouring all evidence and connections. The only meaningful way I can honor her sacrifice now is to continue living the life she died for—the one I said I would beg, borrow, and steal for. 

The life that, without fully realizing the depth of its consequence, I killed for. The life that ultimately resurrected a new me.