Guilt Trip
A Short Story by Richard Hamer

Sticky, nervous, sweating, almost vomiting – already has several times already. Was stuck in the parking lot for 30 minutes, frozen like a corpse. He couldn’t move an inch, every muscle cried out in protest. Tears ran down his face - wild, uncontrolled tears of rage and fear.

And Guilt.

Guilt at what he had done. An accident – of course. He had to tell himself that, otherwise he would have already reached for the knife. Or the noose. Or the oven. Accidents happen… of course. He didn’t *mean* to hurt those kids. He was just playing and got a little… rough. Too rough. They didn’t breathe anymore. He tried to make them breath, tried put it all back in… but it was gone and he was kneeling there, over that tiny life.

Drifting away.

Guilt racked at his chest. It was like a liquid fire burning his insides, twisting and knotting his organs. Like he wouldn’t let himself forget. He couldn’t forget. The pain grew and grew again, and he knew what was coming. Visions flashed through his mind:

A smiling face on a little child. Pig tails. Hands red with blood. Wouldn’t wash off…

That feeling continued to escalate, gnawing at his breast, crawling up his throat. It went up and up, reaching a terrible crescendo of endless dread and boundless torment. He vomited again, up against the wheels of a Honda that had chosen the wrong place to park.

He gathered his thoughts, adjusted his shirt and wiped his mouth quickly with a tissue from his pocket. He tested his breath. He smelt like shit.

No matter. None of it would in a minute.

His eyes, red raw and cloudy with tears, stared blearily at the building looming large ahead. It was vast and white with towering windows and a gleaming white surface. Its marvellously polished finish made it glow like a beacon in a dark - a beacon leading him to salvation. And salvation had a name – it was CerebroTec Inc.

Inside. He didn’t remember walking in. He thought he must be blacking out, and rested himself against the wall to gather his thoughts. Just breathe, he thought to himself. It was a confidential service, so there wouldn’t be a problem if he just relaxed. But he was finding it hard – the secretary behind the desk was annoying him. Tip-tapping on her keyboard, staring at him pointedly over her thick, round glasses. Mocking him with her indifference. For a brief moment, he imagined battering her over the head with her keyboard, to see her dull lifeless corpse collapse to the ground while he trod her head into the carpet until his boot was sticky with her thick, crimson blood.

Hair matted together with blood. Stained brown, knotted together like twine.

“I have an appointment” said the man, slowly and deliberately, trying to ignore the strange, fascinating visions that were currently drifting lazily through his mind like whispers on the wind.
“Name?”
“Mister Cullen. Peter… Cullen”. He almost couldn’t say his own name. But now there was no going back. It was there, on their computers. He was identified now.
“Oh yes, the Doctor will see you now”.

The secretary turned away from him and continued typing away. Tip tap, tip tap, tip tap - drilling into his skull. But he turned away from her. He had resisted and he allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. He was getting better already. No more… accidents.

Casually – as casually as he could manage – the man now known as Peter Cullen made his way up the corridor. Past identical looking doors and identical looking pot plants, though the endless, drape, beige waiting rooms he was walked. Clear of purpose, a giddy excitement coursed through his veins as neared his goal. Absolution was near, and with it – a guilt-free future.

Peter stepped into the surgery. There he was – Doctor Rebek. Luminous like an angel with his white gown and his surgical mask. In his hand was his scalpel – Peter’s deliverance, held aloft for all to see. Peter smiled.
“Ah, Mister Cullen, I believe you are here for the new treatment, yes?”
“That’s right”. He was starting to feel nervous.
“Of course. You… already settled your account details over the phone last night, yes?”
“That’s… that’s right”. Peter remembered that phone call. It was only 20 minutes after the incident. His clothes were still messy with blood and the body was on the floor in his lounge – and he’d still thought clearly enough about how to get out of it.

But it was just an accident. He didn’t deserve to go to prison.

“Please, sit down and I’ll explain the procedure”. The guilt was starting to overtake him again, and he could feel that empty sensation starting to build in his chest – it was a relief to sit down.

The chair was like the dentist’s use, black leather and reclined, so when he sat he looked up into a bright light that seared his eyes. There was a snapping sound from somewhere to his right, as the sterile gloves went on.
“Mister Cullen, the procedure is quite painless and only takes a matter of moments”.
“Yes…”
“As you know, recent scientific advancements have allowed us to articulate the human emotion known as ‘guilt’. We now fully understand that it is merely and electro-chemical response caused by certain stimuli sent to the brain…”
“I understand…”
“As such, this procedure allows us to – as it were – block those signals. As I said, the procedure is totally painless and has no side effects whatsoever. Shall we begin?”

The words were like heavenly music to his ears. Begin… yes. Begin again. Fresh. Anew. Soon, that one little mistake… that error that threatened to end his entire life, would be gone. The memory would remain but the feeling would be lost.

“Yes. Begin”. The light got brighter and brighter, and he squirmed in his chair. But soon unease gave way to bliss, and his whole body felt like it was drifting away. Drifting away to somewhere better. The noises of the real world became like muffled background chatter, all his sense detached and there, pure and simple, was his mind.

Then the memories came flooding back – and with them, that terrible guilt. That aching in his soul that had consumed his life.

He had invited her over. She had said yes… because he was a good teacher and she was far too innocent of the world. He didn’t know why he did what he did… or why it came so easily in the crucial moment. It just seemed so natural… so perfect. A single moment of beauty in a world that had given him nothing but shit. An act of perfect love with a perfect child. But now she was gone, and panic came over him.

The blood wasn’t washing off, and he scrubbed and scrubbed until his hands were cut and his blood flowed together with hers. He hid the body under the floor… because it just seemed to make sense. He lived alone, and no one would come to look.

The guilt had built up slowly, in the corner of his house where he sat on the floor looking at his hands. It came at him all at once, and he knew that if he didn’t get rid of it, it would kill him. But, somehow, he knew the answer. He reached for the phone…

Then, as soon as it was there, it was gone. He smiled and looked away from the light, knowing now that he was cleansed.
“Mister Cullen” said the doctor “you are cured”.

He shook him firmly and happily by the hand and stepped out. He stepped out on the streets of the city where he lived. Where the colours seemed brighter and the smells more intense. His whole body felt more healthy and vibrant than it had ever done before, and he smiled that smile that comes from knowing that – once and for all – you are going to be alright.

So Peter Cullen walked home, through those clean streets under a perfect sky – knowing that the death of that poor little girl, just like the five before her, were simply… accidents.

Richard Hamer
5th March 2004