June 15th - On the clifftop.

All I could smell was the smoke and the rough saltiness of the ocean. The crackling of the burning against the sound of the crashing waves was almost soothing.
I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing. The past hour or so had gone by in a blur, and it was only now that I considered the consequences of my actions.
I would most certainly go to jail. Her family would hate me forever. But they didn't know what she had done to me. How she had broken me.
And they wouldn't believe me, or care.
Their little girl was dead, that was all that mattered.
And then there was my family. I could imagine the questions. How could you? Why? Who have you become?
And again, of course, no one would listen. No one would care.
Their little girl was a murderer, and that was all that mattered.

It was hard to watch our bedroom burning around her as she slept. Our photos and memories warping and blackening in the flames. I turned around and walked away, and left the pain with her.
And then I stood on the clifftop. There was no doubt she had burned by now. The house was engulfed in flames, glowing a brilliant orange behind me.
I looked out across the ocean, squinting as the salty breeze brushed my face. A step forward. Another.
Everything was gone now. Another step.
I stood at the edge.
A deep breath. I spread my arms. Another step.

The water is all I have now.