I'm Sorry

By Greg Wilburn

In this short story, Thomas Wingefeld comes face to face with the horror of his existence as a result of betraying his good friend Arthur. He never meant to be a liar, a monster, a heathen, but that is what he became. And with each passing day, with each lie piled on top of the other, he can only hope to die. Not for himself, but for Arthur, his angel and savior. Arthur is the sole content of absolute truth, which starkly contrasts the half and eighth and forty-elevenths truths Wingefeld and all the other beasts tell themselves to justify their sins from so long ago. And the only way to heal, to find forgiveness, is to die. He must give of himself what he forced Arthur to surrender thirty-two years ago. That way he can truly say "I'm sorry."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Wilburn
• Release date: Sep 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311140395

Greg Wilburn

What is most important about writing is the art of storytelling. I hope that my writing does what a great story should do: make you feel, think, and see something so vividly that it impacts your interactions with the world around you after you've read it. That's because writing is a world all of its own. I write horror, flash fiction, and literary stories that take what we see--even what we want to see--and make it something entirely different. What is most important to this kind of experience is that you leave it saying, "Yep. That was it. And now my world is made anew."I am a writer living in San Dimas, California, and I know that the stories I bring to Smashwords are worth the small contribution I ask. If not, tell me; I want to be a better writer, and I can't do it without feedback. Tell me your thoughts, and show me your stories. Let's share what our imaginations hold together.

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I’m Sorry

By Greg Wilburn

Copyright 2014 Greg Wilburn

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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I’M SORRY

September 23rd, 19—.

My poor Art,

You became a monster long ago, but it wasn’t of your own power. We forced you to become one, mostly I, and no one seems to care about what we did anymore. Except me. I care. I wish I didn’t really, but when I remember how I instigated the crime, forcing my long-time friend to transform into an abomination before the eyes of everything, I can’t help but feel responsible.

Art, I hope somehow that you find this last entry in the bloodied pages of my diary. I say bloodied because of you, Art, and how I can’t stop letting the innocent crimson drip from my lips and soak into the pages, like poison, which is further evidence of my crimes. And the blood isn’t my own, I assure you.

It’s yours, Art, all yours. I know because of the taste and the smell. It tastes