Class. Damn It.

Time. It does not heal every wound.

Sometimes we commit a sin so great, a crime so henious that our body and mind choose to reject it. But we know what we'd done and we live from that moment henceforth fragemented and haunted. We tore ourselves up and the wound festered and spread; slowly corrupting us from within until one day, we no longer recognise the reflection of our own self in the mirror. There are no scars. Only an infection that would never heal.

We go to sleep at night only to be greeted by night terrors. We awake to the deafening silence of darkness; mum as if it knew what we did. How could you.

But I was young and immature and I could not differentiate right from wrong. You try to reason with yourself, make yourself a victim of the situation. But deep in the twisted caverns of your decrepit mind, there exists a memory and it repeats over and over and over...

I know what I did. It was inhuman. I did it anyway.

So you forsook sleep as much as you could. As your body exhausted itself, your mind cracked under the pressure and finally... Finally you crumbled. Oh, how you screamed.

Eventually you sought help. A friend, perhaps. But you could not possibly tell everything. Your sin was, after all, demented. So you heaped layer upon layer upon layer of lies and metaphors until it really sounded as if you were the victim. They told you to get professional help. Deep down you laughed. If you did that, you would end up in chains.

Alone you stood, teetering at the edge of insanity.

Time. It does not heal every wound.