Emotionally

For the past 25 years of my life, I've only written two short stories. It's not for lack of imagination though. My head is always bursting with ideas to write about. My failure---if you can call it that---can be more attributed to damage control. And conscience. It always boils down to conscience. You see, I do not like writing for the simple fact that if I begin to write, I will have to kill.

Well, many praised my works. The stories were published in a distinguished magazine, and I gained popularity. It also gave me fortune. With the help of my works and my savings, I now have my own house, my own car, my own business. What a simple life!

But yet, I ain't going to say that I'm happy. I have kept this secret in me, that deep inside, conscience is killing me. And yes, it still does up to now.

Long time ago, while I was walking in the park, I saw a couple arguing. I saw how the lady reacts when she found out that the man of her dreams is being caressed by another woman. I pity the girl. The man left her weeping. I have done nothing to help.

I felt the urge to write. I wanted to express what I felt towards the incident I witnessed. But when I sat down, holding my pen, my mind became blank. I tried to focus on what I'm doing, but still, I can't begin what I wanted to write. It seemed that something was missing.

Out of nowhere, I heard a voice. A voice that pushed me to do something. A voice that told me what to do. No matter how I tried to ignore it, it kept on coming and coming to me. I needed to obey it. Otherwise, it will keep bothering me.

I'm in a relationship at that time with someone I've loved for five years. We are on a steady relationship but that voice kept bothering me. That voice kept on whispering in my ears. That voice commanded me to break up with her, for her to suffer the same scenario I saw in the park. I was forced to be with another girl. I was forced to break her heart. I saw how she cried in front of me. How she was hurt, as if it's her worst nightmare.

I myself was hurt. I wanted to undo what I've done, but it was too late.

After what I've done, I finished my first short story. I've recalled every single detail that I've done to my ex-girlfriend. I've remembered how she was hurt. The story is about a man who had cheated her long time girlfriend, and realized that he had done the biggest mistake of his life. I named the story as "Breaking Up Isn't an Option".

One Sunday morning, I suddenly felt like making up with her. I tried to talk to her but she refused. I even tried to call her up, or even texted her, but I received no reply. That same day, her grandmother saw her in the bathroom, dead. She committed suicide.

I know that she didn't kill herself. I did. Yes! You heard me right! I broke her heart, I made her cry, I cheated on her! I killed her emotionally! It's too late for me to apologize!

Since then, there were now two voices whispering on me. I didn't know what to do! It keeps bothering me! Day and night! I hardly get enough sleep.

I wanted to release my anger towards these voices. I grabbed my pen and tried to write, but I wrote nothing. The first thing that came to my mind was to confront my father.

I went to my parents house to visit them, but because I'm not in good terms with my father, he refused to let me in. Instead of asking forgiveness, I bragged on him. Harsh words came from my mouth. I even cursed him for treating me that way.

Three days after that incident, my father had a heart attack. I rushed to that hospital but it was too late for me to talk to him. He already passed away. I felt the pain. Tears came from my eyes. Deep inside my heart, I reminisced the good old days we had when I was little. He didn't deserve to be treated the way I treated him.

I know that my father didn't die because of his age, but because he was hurt for my actions. I mistreated him. I disrespected my father. I've killed him emotionally.

After the death of my father, another voice bothered me. There were now three voices whispering. I felt lonely. I felt alone.

I sat down on my table, grabbed my pen, and began to write. I wrote a short story about a man who mistreated his father. A man, who was raised good and had all the love in the world, disrespected and cursed his own father. I named the story as "What Have I Done to You, Father?".

I wanted the world to know what I've done, so I seek every help to find someone that can help me publish my works. A known magazine owner read my stories, and felt the emotion that have captivated his heart. He accepted my offer and published my works. The stories gained positive feedbacks, and in return, the owner of the magazine paid me for it.

For the past 25 years of my life, everyone thinks that I'm happy, and living the life I've always wanted, but deep inside, those voices, those voices that whisper to my ears, are not just voices, but the conscience that keeps on killing me. This is now my third story, and because you have now learned my secret for my published works, please kill me now, emotionally!