Fate
The idea of fate is a complex and mangled web. It grasps at moments between people and pulls until something is set in stone. Its hold is tight and cannot be broken no matter how hard you try. It weaves the strands of people's lives in its own twisted game. Fate is cruel. It takes and takes until there is nothing left to give but one's life. Then it calls upon its friend, Death, for the string to be cut. Severed and gone it falls away to be forgotten.
I like to believe that fate is real. Something else responsible for all of the suffering caused. I can pass the blame and guilt away. I blame it on the webs and the cold hands weaving them. Those hands. Those hands never shake in the night as they think about what they’ve done. They never hesitate to make their choice. I blame it on a scary figure that comes to cut the strings when you least expect it. It has a malicious smile that spreads across its face as it takes those I love.
Fate has to be real. If fate isn’t real what does that say about me? That I consciously made those choices? That secretly there was another option hiding around the corner when I truly believed I was stuck with only one? I made those decisions. I hurt the ones I loved. I said those words. The blame and guilt sink their claws into my skin and pull. They rip me apart until I am left with nothing other than the realization that fate isn’t real. The cold hands I felt weaving my path were mine. They watch as I fall apart with no remorse. The malicious smile on Death's face creeps closer and whispers in my ear, “not yet.” They fade away, not real either. I am left alone with my string unsevered. My worst fears have come to life and all I can do is keep weaving. I just keep weaving.