The sheets tangled around my legs from hours of tossing and turning in bed, they were damp with sweat and unease. I stared at the ceiling, willing my mind to quiet, but it refused.
The thought kept reoccurring, again and again until I couldn't close my eyes without imagining a lifeless child lying on the floor.
A four-year-old.
The guilt had rooted itself in my chest like a tumor, it had grown larger and heavier with every passing second till I found it hard to breathe.
It didn't matter that I hadn't pulled the trigger, or that I hadn't even known until this morning. What mattered was that it happened under my rule, under my war. And that child paid the price.
I turned again, stuffing my face into the pillow, trying to bury it all. But I couldn't. I couldn't bury the guilt, not the thought, or the question: What kind of woman lets this happen and sleeps anyway?
