Spoilers: For all S3.
A/N: Thanks to Fanwoman for the betareading.
I have sinned. I've never really been concerned about sin before, least not for a long, long time.
I have hated, hated as passionately as I have loved. Even if it was just for one second, I regret feeling that way. Yet I won't apologise; I don't want to take it back. I don't want my passion removed or ignored because acknowledging it makes it real, meaningful – something to learn from, I hope. Maybe I'll know one day what this teaches me, but right now...I just feel it, and I'm scared of myself.
I can't stop sinning. It's wrong for me to say it, but I'm not sure I care to stop.
I have envied. It seemed fairly normal, at first. I wished so much that I could be more for her or that she could be different for me – and then it changed; he came. The wish changed, twisted into something more - that he wasn't around, that he hadn't so neatly slipped into the hole in her life so she never truly cared I was gone. I doubt she noticed what it was like to be without me. If I couldn't be as happy as she was, I wanted her to feel the pain of loneliness - like the pain I felt from losing her.
Now, the twisted desire for her to taste of her own medicine is fading, but never fast enough. Half of me wants her to hurt the same, and the rest just wants to ignore it all, focus on the bright smile I imagine she wears once more. My mind tells me it should be for me. It never will be, but I should still want her to have her happiness, despite that mine is, at least temporarily, non-existent.
Forgive me. Though I think I only ask because I should.
I have doubted…everything. Almost nothing makes sense. Every day, promicin kills more people, and promicin related crime increases. She's on another continent, far away, and I like to think she's safe. Suddenly, her decision is starting to make more sense… might be the only thing that does lately.
I'm alone. I've accepted that, but I'd wanted better for others. People I know are alone again, lost again. I hadn't expected that. All my hopes were pinned on someone else having a happy ending, and that's not panning out. I could accept my own pain as something passing, something I'm overcoming, but there's Tom's, too, at least as deep as mine was. He doesn't know where Alana is - she was ripped from his world against her will. That she still loved him only makes it worse for him - knowing you're loved can be little comfort on occasion, and it almost makes me grateful that I can't be hurt further.
I wanted more for others, if not for me, and the whole world is going to hell instead. So many deaths each day, and the government, my workplace, shifts blame to those who survive the shot. Logic is turned on its head, and there is nothing left for me to cling to. I used to have faith, but I find myself without it. All that's left is facts, brutal but truthful, ready to be sorted, interpreted. There is no comfort in that.
Forgive me, for what I ask, I should not ask.
For the first time in a while, I hoped – practically prayed – that this bad news about her sister would bring Diana back. I knew it meant nothing to me, and that it would undoubtedly hurt her to hear about it, scare her to know. But I wanted it to, wanted an excuse to bring her near me again, just because, despite it all. Strangely, when I first found out, I didn't care about the pain, to me, to her, what this must mean for April…I can't believe this is what I've turned into. And what is it for? Diana? No, she doesn't care, and I need to stop trying to not care – it hurts more than just accepting I love her, even after everything. Denying it does me no good, because she still twists my gut, makes me irrational, but at least I used to accept that fact and be able think sensibly despite her affect on me.
Forgive me my sins, forgive us our debts.
I think I've always been sorry about how I've felt since we broke up. I've never stopped caring, which caused most of the problems for me because I can't help my feelings, though I've never acted on them. There's no betrayal here; we parted before he came along. His effortless entry into her heart simply magnified my doubts - the kind I've always mulled over, things I questioned because it's in my nature. But I don't think I need forgiveness; I've already forgiven myself. I need to forgive her, and Diana needs to forgive herself. I can only help with one of those, though I wish it was different – whatever she needs, now, I can't be it. I can't help her discover what she must do to overcome her own demons. Then again, I suspect it will be a while before she even realises she has any.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.