My Guilt Will Not Purify Me Novels & Stories

“Alright. Then we don’t talk about the details. Let’s talk about how it makes you feel.” “I don’t feel anything,” I snapped, then regretted it immediately. “I mean—I don’t want to. But it’s like it’s rotting me from the inside.” He scribbled something in his notebook. “It’s guilt, Grey. And guilt is a powerful emotion.” “I know what it is.” I sat forward, elbows on my knees. “It’s not just guilt. It’s… it’s like a weight. It’s always there. Even when I laugh, even when I’m with people—I feel it. Like I’m not allowed to be okay.”

I couldn't save my wife, and now I've failed my daughter. I was so consumed by vengeance, so blinded by my own pain, that I abandoned her when she needed me most. I left her vulnerable, exposed to the darkness that lurks within her own mind. The image of Jewel, curled up on the floor, her face pale and drawn, haunts me. The faint lines on her wrist, a stark testament to her suffering, are seared into my memory. How could I have been so blind? So selfish? I close my eyes, willing the image away, but it's no use. The guilt is a relentless tormentor, a constant reminder of my inadequacy.

“It only makes the pain worse. How can we heal and move forward when we let guilt take the reins?” “Riel… it hurts.” “I know.” She wiped his tears on her sleeve. “It is okay, let it out. I’ve got you, my dearest Beloved. Let it all out.” She pressed his head to her midriff, her arms encircling him passionately. As his body trembled in her hold, she stroked his hair soothingly, petting him. “It is okay to release it all. Do not give guilt the power it craves. Guilt peels away the salves on a wound, leaving it raw… scarred… never to heal.”

The trees hide my tears as I lean against the trunk of one when everything that I endured comes crashing into me at an alarming speed. My teeth sink on my lower lip to contain the greater part of my sobs. I've killed people without flinching and cleaned their blood off my hands like a mechanic rinses off the oil, and this is what I can't stand- the power of my guilt. In that second, I understand the futility of my life. No matter how fast or how far I run, my actions will follow suit to remind me that I'll never be truly free. A part of me will always be caged and scared.

“No, father. It was…it was bad, and it really hurt.” “I see,” he murmured, and silence stretched between us. “Your guilt is a sign of a conscience that’s still alive, my child. That is good. But the stain is deep. Standard penance with prayers and rosaries for a sin of this nature may not be sufficient to make you truly clean before you take the Eucharist again.” A cold dread washed over me. My prayers would not be sufficient? Oh god, I was going to hell. I was going to burn forever.

A feeling of uncertainty washed over me as I proceeded to walk over to a large throne. “You've got a very guilty conscience, don't you?” A deep voice rang out around me. “You cannot proceed to the next phase until your guilt is cleared. Sit in the throne and let your guilt go.” I did as instructed, making myself comfortable. “You've more guilt than most, Violet.” The voice said as I pursed my lips. “The easiest way to clear such a large burden is to tap into your deepest self and release the souls of all those who have died from this invasion.”

I didn’t answer. He leaned closer. “Do you want this?” The word this hung between us, heavy with implication. “Yes,” I whispered. The relief on his face was subtle—but it was there. “Good,” he said. “Then stop punishing yourself.” That was the moment guilt stopped being a barrier and started becoming an inconvenience. It still showed up sometimes—when I was alone, when my phone buzzed with messages I answered too late, too vaguely. When I caught my reflection and barely recognized the person looking back at me.

Everything that mattered is gone. And I'm still here, still breathing, still carrying the weight of sins that can never be forgiven. I close my eyes and let the guilt wash over me like a tsunami wave. I let it mark me as the kind of man who loses everything he touches, because he doesn't deserve to keep it. The kind of man who can never love anyone without killing them.

My hand shook. My clít throbbed with aftershocks. Sensitive to the slightest brush of air. I lay there. Exhausted. Sated. Changed. I stared at the ceiling. At the crucifix. Guilt tried to creep in. Tried to whisper that I had fallen. That I was ruined. But the guilt felt small. Distant. Overpowered by the truth burning in my chest. I loved it. I loved the feeling. The release. The power of my own body.

Her gaze, when it finally settled on me, was a chilling thing, devoid of the warmth I craved. "What you're feeling right now, Hero," she began, her voice a low, dangerous hum, "is guilt. Raw, unadulterated guilt. You've made a colossal mess of things, haven't you? A string of poor choices, each one a domino toppling the next, until the damage threatens to engulf you both. And now, faced with the potential consequences, the monster I thought you were, the one you are trying to prove to me that you are not."