I’m sorry.
These two words would be the last communication intended by Warren’s hand before he snorted enough cocaine for an entire football team and slipped a letter opener across his wrists. Of course, my heart bled at the thought of him suffering in so much pain as my own ache now seemed inferior to it. But it did not exonerate him and the heartlessness of his selfish actions. Even if I would feel a sense of mourning throughout the sight of doctor’s exiting those vapid white doors sto deliver news to those whose other loved ones were dancing on the line between life and death, my stubbornness kept me motivated to remain indifferent. This ping pong battle of a kind heart bruised by the price of lust and that of a mind scorned from nearly two decades of tainted trust continued until his
