Everyone has regrets. Anyone who says otherwise is lying—probably to themselves. We all have those moments we wish could be erased, moments when a random thought sneaks into our mind and twists us inside out, forcing us to relive the sting of shame. At my foolishly young age, I know those moments well, the kind that sneak up on you in the dark and remind you of the deep scars anger has carved into your fragile flesh, of secrets that cling to your soul, destined to follow you into the grave.
But taking the plunge into the abyss off Cape Point wasn’t quite the solution to my guilt. I was never that theatrical. No, I chose the easy, unoriginal way out—an overdose of heart medication. I got it from a guy named Joe, a man who moonlights by selling vital organs on the black market and corrupting the minds of the young with his twisted brand of line-dancing at local puppet shows. Seemed fitting somehow, that I’d leave this life with something acquired in such bizarre circumstances.
The moment the pills hit my stomach, a tremor shot through my body—not from the medication, but from the shock of it all. I’d really done it. I stumbled to the mirror, searching for some sign of change in my pale reflection, hoping to see something different in the face that stared back at me. But what I saw in that glass terrified me more than the thought of death ever could.
Without thinking, I dialed my dad. The phone rang once, twice—then his voice, sharp with irritation:
“Yes, Cassie! What do you want now?”
The frustration in his tone made me pause, my resolve wavering. A dark, spiteful part of me considered letting him find me cold and lifeless. Wouldn’t that sting? Let the guilt gnaw at his insides, slowly, like a rat in the walls. But my body betrayed me, and before I could stop it, the words spilled from my lips, like bile—”Dad, I did something… I took the pills.”
Passing out felt almost like a blessing, a fleeting escape from the weight of it all. But when I woke, there was no peace. Just the sterile chill of the hospital, numbness crawling through my veins like ice water. And there he was—my father, standing by the window, eyes sharp and accusing, dissecting me with a gaze that cut deeper than any scalpel. I knew then that I had become an inconvenience, that my weakness had seeped into his very core, staining his precious moral fiber with something dark and unwanted.
And yet, beneath it all, I felt the familiar tug of shame—the regret that sinks deep and holds fast, the kind that never truly lets you go.
