My Fault

She said it was entirely my fault. I don’t see how do you? I guess you probably wouldn’t say even if you could. She said if it wasn’t for me it wouldn’t have happened at all. No sympathy at all. Stupid cow. What does she know? Selfish, catty, mean-eyed, hard-mouthed tramp that she is. It wasn’t my fault was it? I wish you could tell me no.
Do you know I am sat here freezing my butt off? Stone is not known for its heat conductive abilities, in mid-November even less so. I watch a man, he comes here as often as I. He stays longer, less guilt maybe. Big coat over small frame, walks without connection to his surroundings. Walks slowly, reluctantly, head down. It does that to you, a place like this. Not many can come regularly without becoming a little less than they once were.
A goldfish bowl. It’s true. You can see out but not quite touch. Removed and slightly distorted of view, that’s how we feel, it’s what sets us apart. I feel it, we all feel it, those of us that visit and sit and talk. Those of us that are damaged.
She said it was all a horrid mistake and if I had cared enough it wouldn’t have happened. Have I already said she’s mean and spiteful? It’s my theme today, her hatefulness. We all need a theme, keeps us sane. I did care enough. Didn’t I?
Why stone benches? Are we not meant to stop, talk, and ease the guilt? My butt says no, everything else screams yes. So you see, I must care.
Give me a sign that you hear me, that you know who I am. No one has had a sign yet, I may be the lucky one. Madam Spite says I am. “It should have been you” she says. “It should have been you.” The rest of them disagree, protest, deny, but it’s in their eyes. It should have been me. Is that why I come, to sit on stone, talk to granite, feel like marble? I cry dry eyed you know, no more tears. No more tear ducts. I am the lucky one. I, the one people want to run from, I am the lucky one. Centuries ago I would have been branded a witch. In our enlightened century I can hope to be ignored but usually I attract wide eyed horror. A fear and fascination of the grotesque. Disfigured and ugly, a punishment for my sins. God’s judgement metered to the sinful. God’s judgement given in fire.
Guilt it is that places new flowers, clears away the dead ones. Guilt that I am here and you are not. Guilt that I mourn, not just you, but a life that is no longer mine. Taken away, replaced by another rather unfriendly world. I feel guilt because I wish I was where you are and you were here. That I didn’t have to suffer the stares, the questions. So much guilt, where did the love go? Taken away, burned in the flames, burned away along with my life, my hope, my face.
Madam Spiteful was right all along.

It should have been me.