My first impulse is to run. And beg—beg for forgiveness. On my knees; shrieking or groaning, to plead. Choke and almost sob, almost cry—almost; I will not weep, for enough is enough.

I want to run back screaming for mercy, mercy in your thoughts, about me; because I remember your smile, that faint, playful smile. A cherished memory, almost, because you were teasing, and you were directing your elbow at me.

I am selfish—that, I cannot deny. I am a selfish, cynical asshole, and I am proud of it, to the very last inch.

But I am also proud to know you. A stupid, naïve fondness, because you are superior, a figure of strength; I fear and respect you—that, also, I cannot deny.

And they call what you did "yelling." At me. You yelled at me, for the first time. You have lectured me, snapped at me—but never yelled—at—me. But now you have, with venom, and realizing that—I want to scream.

Loud. Louder. Even louder.

You yelled at me, and I feel shame. I feel it sear.

I am sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, and now, I feel stupid, disgusted, because actions speak louder than words, and my words are dry, though true. Then, now, I want to cry again, sob and weep so the floor can hear instead of you, for I feel shame, and I am so sorry, so sorry that I disappointed you, so sorry that your smirk has become a snarl, so, so, so sorry that I regret, that I must feel this way....