It's not a comfort, when time and peace allows for the re-cementing of every piece of self-disgust and blame to take root. Every little sense of horror she feels comes with a sense of blame, pushed further and further into themself. A sense of being wrong. A feeling that she breaks everything she touches, just by being around.

It was all their fault. Will she understand that?

You took too much, too quickly. And it spilled across the floor. You created murderers from good people. You caused the suffering of a child who didn't deserve it. You ensured that no one would remember you, want to remember you, cast you aside the moment a better child came along. You are the reason your world is broken beyond repair, and every spiteful, angry, judgmental note is accompanied by that innate understanding that it never would have been this way if you just hadn't existed at all.




It's but a second, but in that second, every agonized, miserable emotion pours into her from a child so self-contained that the very act of sharing it all, finally, is enough to bring them to tears once more.

And then it's over.