Guilt. A weight, a pressure in your chest, silent weeping in the night. A feeling that pushes you down, suffocates you, steals the air from your lungs. Something that chokes you until you feel as if you could endure no more agony.

            Guilt is something I feel constantly.

            Suddenly, in my muddled mind, I hear a scream, high and clear. The voice of my younger sister.

            I start awake, my alarm clock still ringing its high tone. I sigh with relief, only to be crushed by grief. I am once again reminded that my little sister is dead.

            I stare at my ceiling, tears in my eyes. Memories fly before my eyes: my sister, singing, a gun, gunfire…

            “Marie!” I hear my mother shout. “Marie, wake up!”

            I stir myself enough to reply “I'm awake,” but make no attempt to get up. My memories still haunt me. Thoughts of what I could’ve done to save her flow through my mind uncontrolled. I could have run in front of her… I could have drawn attention away from her… I could have…

            A sob rises in my throat, but catches. I think of her bravery, of her telling the shooter he was making a mistake… before the bullet hit her chest.

             “Marie, are you coming?” my mother yells from downstairs.

            I pause, listening to her words, confused. “Why? What for?”

            “For your…” my mother stifles a sob of her own. “For your sister’s funeral. It’s today. Come get ready.”

            My sister’s funeral. The words penetrate my mind, reminding me again that I failed to protect her, that I let her die.

            Emotions war inside of me- guilt, grief, anger.

            I feel tears falling from my eyes, running along my face. My chest feels empty, but at the same time swelling until it feels like it will burst. The pain, the agony, the emotion is blinding, and I think of nothing but ending it.

            Frantically I drag myself out of bed. I am weeping, and a ringing sound fills my ears, blocking out the sounds of my mother calling my name. I look around my room, searching for a way to end my suffering.

            There. A small knife, not quite a pocket knife, lays on my dresser. My sister collected them, she thought they looked cute… the thought brought on another wave of misery.

            My tortured mind reaches desperately for the sharp blade. I take a deep breath… and stab myself, as my worried mother enters my room.

            The anguished look on her face causes me to feel more guilt.

            Guilt. A weight, a pressure in your chest, silent weeping in the night. A feeling that pushes you down, suffocates you, steals the air from your lungs. Something that chokes you until you feel as if you could endure no more agony.

            Guilt is something I am released from.

            Guilt is something I feel no more.