It has been three days since I murdered the Man. The sun has beaten my face with its outstreached arms. The rocks that I walk upon claw at my feet to the point were they are bloodied. My lips are parched, they are cracked and feel like the sand paper father would use to smooth the tables he carved. I wish I was dead. Ever since I hammered His hand to that tree I have wished myself dead over and over.

As I was walking on the fourth day I saw a girl. She appeared to be my age, she looked worn. She looked as if she to wanted to die. We came upon eachother. It had been so long since I last used my voice my words came out gruff and low. I asked her where she was going. And she shrugged. I asked her if she was by herself. She nodded. I asked her why she was walking all by herself and she turned away from me. I called to her to wait. I was so thirsty it felt like bees were stinging my throat. She turned around. Can I tell you why I am walking? I asked her. I had to tell someone what I had done. Maybe saying it outloud would somehow make a little of the pain leave my mind. I told her. But I didn't look at her as I said it. I told her I murdered an innocent man. She told me to look at her. I did. She lifted her hands and they were as crimson as mine. I cried. I was disgusted with myself. I felt relief that she had done the same thing as me. Relief! How can I feel relief? She cried as well. We didn't hug each other but we walked together. Not talking just silently weeping.

It seems that misery does love company.

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