Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why did I do that? Fuck! I hate myself! I hate myself! I hate myself! I hate myself! I hate myself! I hate myself!

The hell is wrong with me!? Shit, bitch, fuck... I didn't mean it. Please forgive me, I beg you!

My thoughts are a cacophony of chaos, my mind unable to grasp the horror of my actions. I can't erase the image, the taste, the overwhelming disgust. My stomach churns, not just with what I've consumed but with a deeper, visceral revulsion. Every fiber of my being screams in agony at the atrocity I've committed. It's as if a dark veil has descended over my soul, and I am trapped in an endless nightmare of guilt and self-loathing.

What kind of monster am I? What twisted part of me could ever lead me to such a grotesque act? I see her face, contorted in fear and pain, and I feel the life that was snuffed out, the innocent unborn who had no chance to see the world. It's too much to bear, this crushing weight of my sin.

I didn't want to do it. I didn't. Something inside me snapped, something I can't comprehend or control. I was overtaken by a primal force, a hunger that wasn't just about sustenance but about something darker, more insidious. And now, in the cold aftermath, all I have is regret, a deep, consuming regret that gnaws at me from the inside out.

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I can't escape it. The memory is seared into my consciousness, a perpetual reminder of my fall from humanity. I feel dirty, contaminated by my own actions, as if my very essence has been stained by the blood of the innocent. No amount of scrubbing or penance will cleanse me of this sin. It is a mark, an indelible scar that I must carry with me for the rest of my days.

I clutch my head, fingers digging into my scalp as if I can claw the images out of my mind. But they persist, vivid and horrifying. I see her eyes, pleading for mercy, and I see the small, fragile life inside her, a life I had no right to take. I see it all, over and over, in a relentless loop that shatters any semblance of peace.

What would she say to me if she could speak from beyond the grave? Would she curse me? Would she weep for the life I destroyed, for the future I obliterated? I don't deserve forgiveness, not from her, not from anyone. But still, I yearn for it, a futile hope that somehow, someway, I could be absolved of this monstrous deed.

The world feels different now, colder, more alien. I am an outsider, a pariah in my own skin. I can't look at myself in the mirror; the reflection that stares back is a stranger, a demon wearing my face. I am lost in a labyrinth of my own making, each turn bringing me back to the same awful realization: I did this. I am the monster.

I scream into the void, a primal, guttural sound that echoes my despair. There is no solace in the darkness, no comfort in the silence. I am alone with my guilt, and it suffocates me, wraps around me like a shroud.

I must find a way to atone, though I know no penance will ever be enough. Maybe in seeking redemption, I can find a sliver of peace, a way to live with the unbearable weight of my crime. But where to begin? How does one even start to make amends for something so heinous?

I collapse to the floor, vomiting, tears mingling with the blood on my hands. This is my reality now, a never-ending torment of my own making. I can only hope that somehow, someday, I can find a way to forgive myself, though it seems an impossible task. For now, I am a prisoner of my own conscience, shackled by the horror of what I've done.