𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 // 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

No Stranger To Unfairness

"I can't believe she'd do this to me. I-, I never thought this would happen to me. I thought I'd suffered enough at the hands of love, or what I thought was love." George whispered, his voice catching. I nodded and continued rubbing his back as he cried.

"I'm really sorry, George." I said softly.

I was truly sorry, but what I did was necessary. It was for the greater good. But was it really? My mind asked quietly. Shut up. I sat there with George for a few minutes before George exhaled and shakily got up from the couch, holding tears back. He shuffled to his door, shut himself in his room and locked the door with a click, the following silence in the apartment heavy and stifling like it had been before.

What was that discontent I felt? No way was it guilt. I didn't feel guilt. Well, I wasn't supposed to feel guilt, or anything. So why did it feel like I did? I assured myself it was probably sympathy I didn't even really feel, because I didn't even know what sadness felt like. But I found myself doubting my own assurance. I even found myself doubting what I did to break Lia and George up. Maybe there had been another way to get George, an alternative way to take him from Lia without hurting him.

No, I reminded myself. This was the only good way, the most efficient and effective way. Lia wasn't good for George. I'm helping him. This will benefit him. This was a good decision. This was something I needed to do for my own good, and George's well-being. It was a good choice. It benefits everybody.

But one thought continued to circulate, overpowering the rest. If it was a good choice, why do I feel so uneasy and doubtful?

I never did, and wasn't supposed to feel anything. But then why did I feel inklings of something resembling guilt and remorse? Doctors and specialists could never tell me what was wrong, and all they could say was that I would never feel. But then, how did a single person like George manage to make me feel something? Even if the inklings of guilt were infinitesimal, they existed.

And they weren't supposed to.

George didn't emerge from his room for the rest of the day. I let him have his time alone, but seven, eight hours passed, and I was concerned about him. So I took matters into my own hands and knocked on his door, my hand hovering above the wood.

"George?" I asked. No response. I sighed and tried again.

"Are you in there?" I asked, a little clearer. A shaky sob sounded from inside.

"May I please come in?"

"I can't anymore." George sobbed. I listened to him cry from within, my stomach twisting in knots. I needed to make sure he was alright. The stirrings of remorse must have been a sign that I was truly concerned. Hopefully.

"George, could you open the door? Please?"

"Everything's too much, Clay, I can't, I can't, I can't." He cried, his voice a broken, feeble whisper. Frail and much too weak, like a decayed leaf in the strong wind. Doubt of my own prior actions clouded my head for a second, but I shook the thoughts away and continued pleading with George.

"Please, can I come in?"

"I can't do this, I can't." George let loose a frail sob.

"Please. George, please let me in." I begged.

"I'm sorry, Clay. I can't," He whispered, "I can't do it."

"I just want to make sure you're okay. I promise I won't do anything more. You don't have to talk if you don't want to. I just want to help." I said softly. I meant those words. I did.