Drab-let series (Guess it, pick next)  – “The Confession”

jhelenoftrek:

@kbunks4 was on the
ball with the last one.  420 words, made me work for this and I’m
so glad!  Ready to play?  

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It wasn’t my idea.

I didn’t want to do it. 

I’ve been telling myself these words for weeks but
the nightmares won’t subside.  I see her standing before me, eyes wide
with disbelief at what I have ordered.  I feel no remorse.

He draws his weapon and I wait with eager
anticipation.  I want to see her fall.  I want to see her crumble and
suffer.  I want to be rid of her and then maybe I can be rid of goddamn
everything else she keeps doing to me.

When I wake, I am mortified.  Sick.  Most
mornings I dry heave over the side of the bed before my eyes are fully
open.  

I’ve done everything I can think of to shed the guilt
– to forget.  I’ve recycled my clothing, dumped the Vulcan brandy and
destroyed the weapon.  I’ve even attempted to confess.

“It wasn’t my idea,” I told her.  “I didn’t want
to do it.”  Half-truth poured from my tongue like syrup over a cake of
wretched lies.  

She told me that she understood, she forgave me.  But her words were short-lived relief.  I
could see the hurt set deep within her soul.  I never wanted it to be this
way between us.  

My unending, unrequited devotion had morphed to depthless
sorrow.  And then twisted into rage.

There is only one other person who knows.  At the end of the day,
he’s the only other individual I trust explicitly out here – and especially
after this.  God, I owe him my life another time now. 

I decide, at once, I need to speak with him.  I can’t endure
another night of quiet torture.

“Hey boss,” Ayala greets me, spry and ready even though it’s well into
twilight hours.

“Got a minute?” I ask.

“All night,” he replies, waving me through.  A bottle of whisky –
seal still intact – has been waiting on the table.  He knows me well.

I sit.  He pours.

“How much do you remember?” I finally get out.

He sets his glass down, it makes a dull thud.  “Everything.”

I lower my face to my palms, fingers catching in my hair. 

“I’ll shut the hell up if you want, but I thought you loved
her,” he says.

I nod. 

“Then why?”

I shake my head with my hands.  

He sips from his drink again, sees that mine is empty and refills the glass.

“Disabling the phaser….” I say, words hushed in shame.

“It was my idea.”

He waits for my confession.  

“I didn’t want to do it.”