A short story that I found written in my journal, once forgotten but now revised and shared.

She knew many different kinds of "sorry".

The deceiving ones, that were forced out of malice ridden kids by exasperated teachers.

The sympathetic, pitying ones. Customary words said at funerals. Monotones barely heard over the pounding of her heart and the distraught screams of her mind.

The scathing ones, thrown as insults, more hurtful than the punches and kicks she caught glimpses of in between shut eyes.

Sorry that you're worthless.

Sorry that you're unwanted.

Sorry that you're a disgrace.

She had gotten use to these over time. After all, mom and dad used to say them too.

Then there were the genuine ones, those ridden with emotion and guilt, though for what she never would find out. Ones most commonly uttered by complete strangers, or kids with wide, innocent eyes. Whispered from other damaged beings, a rare moment of almost- understanding. But they were them, and she was not, and those "sorrys" became few and far in between.

She learned about another kind of "sorry" a few months later, directed towards that shy boy at the orphanage, that kind nurse that saved her life, and a couple of select others. It came in the form of despair, utter helplessness, messy words scrawled on a slip of paper. It laid next to a bottle of pills, and a heart that had stopped beating an hour ago.

"I'm sorry."