Survivor's remorse, also called survivor's guilt, is when the survivor of a horrific… traumatic… disastrous event thinks that they've done wrong by surviving. Especially if the survivor is the… sole survivor of the ordeal in question… and more so if said ordeal could have been stopped.

Survivor’s remorse is breaking down and becoming borderline suicidal when the memories come back every hour of every minute of every second of every, agonizing, painful, lonely day.

Survivor's remorse is you… crying and screaming and begging the ghosts to stop coming into your dreams to haunt you and to forgive you for the one mistake you made - the mistake of apathy… the mistake of living. It’s the whispers you hear when you are awake, despite the strong medication you are given to counter the piercing voices, as well as the securing of the straight jacket they put on you so you don’t try and claw the visions of their shadows out of your eyes or bang them out of your head against a nice, sturdy wall.

Survivor's remorse is being pulled out of your room on the jagged edge of sobriety and rolled down the grungy, rotting, piss-and-ammonia smelling hallways in order to re-live the hellish memory in front of a too persistent and too eager audience… when you would much rather be thrown out the window of the top of a twenty story building… or tied to a very dry wooden post and burned with napalm.

Survivor's remorse is begging for death from the officer with the gun, or from the nurse who has the calming serum in his poised hands, or from the long, skinny hands of the shrink. It’s begging them to kill you instead of retelling the tale.

Survivor's remorse is walking into the crumbling corpse of an abandoned hotel trying to find the friends who invited you there several hours prior to look for murderous, merciful, or miserable ghosts in order to escape the dullness of the suburban lifestyle.

It’s searching in the decomposed mind, the mutilated heart, and the corroding stomach of the dying hotel… then finding the wet, fresh, stinking blood and feces trail leading to its eaten-away bowels.

It’s crying silently at the shrieking voices beyond the door that leads to hell. It’s covering your ears from hearing the sloshing… and crunching and… and ripping sounds of your friends… as… as well as others crying, shrieking, belting, screaming for help!

It’s puking up dinner and bile from the horrific sounds. It’s being found by the tall, skinny, grungy, putrid human male in a bloody pink lamb’s mask and being dragged by my arm into the even fouler smelling room in which the shouts came from.

It’s opening your eyes and looking at the... at the wide… dim candle-lit basement. It’s the shouting from the site of red, soupy, bumpy, shiny red goo coating the visible floors and walls. It’s seeing one friend - along with others - standing bruised, and naked and bloody while your other friend is… is making sounds of slimy… sticky coughing as if his insides were coming out through his mouth. It’s seeing that bludgeoned, ripped in half friend, his upper body parts spilling out on the cruddy ocean below him. It’s seeing his bloodshot eyes cry out for relief and escape from the pain.

It’s the partner of the lamb - a beautiful woman in a puffy, pink skirt and pink high heals - kicking you in the stomach and being told to shut up. It’s looking into her eyes and seeing… something… so beyond evil… that you begged and pleaded death to take you as far away from her as possible.

It’s being told by her powdery-pink lips and sparkly, white teeth that you have to make a choice: either walk away alive, but watch her and her partner kill every last person alive and naked in the dark hell hole of a room, or die the slowest most painful death out of all of them.

It’s being kicked and stopped on more because of your silence. It’s hearing the woman’s voice bark for her pink lamb faced accomplice, hearing the un-zipping of pants, and quickening of breaths that you finally scream after what feels like hours of silence.

It’s choosing life, knowing the consequences.

It’s watching the couple’s… It’s watching the couple's skilled precision… and monstrous strength… and their high-piercing laughs as one wears the intestine of a once pleading and crying housewife as a boa and modeling it as the other proceeds to partially lift his mask… and… and… and eat the brain, heart, and lungs of a young boy in a now crumpled and soiled birthday hat… and proceeding to remark how three needed some type of seasoning to… to… accentuate… to accentuate the… bloody… flavor…

It’s crying and covering your eyes with your hands as you try and look away from the hideous scene. It’s your hands being snatched away and being tied tightly to your back by a victim’s hair while being punched and shrieked at for not looking.

It’s the sounds and sights being burned into your mind as the hours tick away slowly… and brutally. It’s watching as countless lives are made jokes of by these towering shadows as they played, insulted, and ate the body parts. It’s seeing the life… leave their eyes… one… after the other… after the other… after the other…

It’s seeing the last victim - a young adult - angering the killers by not screaming or belting or making a face of agony - but keeping their mouth pursed and keeping their eyes shut… clutching the Buddhist beads at their neck.

It’s the two finishing their job… and knocking you unconscious after cackling loudly at their “newest trophies.” It’s screaming for three days and refusing to eat, rebelling sleep, and constantly soiling yourself until your relatives have enough of you. It’s fighting the serum they gave you to throw you in the truck… and take you to the decay.

It’s waking up from a horrible forced dream, and attacking the armed officers. It’s cursing and spitting when you receive not the bullet of mercy, but the anesthetic of damnation.

Survivor's remorse is, several days later, crying tears of relief that the sheets are long enough to reach the window and loop around your bedpost.

Survivor's remorse is elation in the form of stiff, earth-colored, cotton calmness looped around your neck, as you spread your arms and jump.

Written by BluChe 001
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