I looked into the faces of my family.

My father was always jolly looking, especially if there was something sweet and sugary around. My mom always seemed serene to me, happy about who she was, where she was, and who she was with, my sister, who was about two years older than I, was always suspicious. Of everything. I told her she was paranoid once, a mistake I will never make again. She almost bit my head off before telling me that she was just wary, and that it was a healthy thing to be so.

They looked so different now.

My father was shocked and angry. My mother was also shocked, in denial, and her was crying too. She and my sister were clinging to each other and screaming out 'why's' in a steady morbid rhythm.

I hated that it was my fault they were like this. I hated that I was the one who did this to them. It was my fault. I knew my family would never properly looked me in the face again, and I didn't know if I could ever look at them the same again, now these tortured versions of my family filled every good memory I had.

I hated myself for doing this to them, how could I feel anything else? I knew what had happened, and knew that if only I had done this or that, things wouldn't be this way. I knew now that my whole existence from here would be full of if only's that's just the way it was, because if only I hadn't gone through the shortcut, then I wouldn't have died.

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