The knife was cold like stone, and was shining silver. Nothing had ever touched the knife, not yet. That was before the incident though, where it didn’t just end in tears, but end with blood, death and the weary eyes of relations and friends. It killed me inside, to know it was my fault. I am the only one who knows it was me. It’s not something you tell anyone, is it. “Hey, guess what, I killed someone.” It’s not something you would bring up in a conversation. The guilt I have. The guilt that will stay with me forever. The guilt that has killed me inside. The guilt that I have to hide. The guilt of life.

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