Forever stained with shit she would remain. It was one thing to spinelessly bow to her crowd and revise what had happened in her own favor—changing dates, what was said, recasting her reactions with no recourse to reality, and wholly inventing details. That was what she had fed to them, and, if they were dumb enough to believe it all, that was on them, for no true friend would have manipulated them that way, only the ego of a self-absorbed narcissist. But, following the advice of self-interested imbeciles, whom she had misled and who filled her head with untrue garbage that she did not correct, she cast him as a threat to children, an unspeakable, irredeemable, and premeditated sin. She knew him. She knew he was no menace to anyone but her, though only in words for her lies and duplicity, and she knew he was no physical threat to her or any of the children, whom he cared for as if they were his own. But she decided, egged on by the grotesque and ignorant, in her vanity and role play for pity and drama, to cross a line so foul that it now stained her with shit forever, stamped her as a deranged prevaricator, a vindictive hag of a woman. And the depths of her depravity, what showed her as an heretical cur who only used faith as an excuse to get away with murder, was her complete lack of conscience on that point. She was not ashamed of herself for it at all, nor the continued lies she told after. 

She could deny it all she wanted, but he was in possession of the letter she’d sent. They, her enablers, could read it for themselves, along with reams of other proof of her soulless treachery. She could not deny it and call herself sane, no matter how many she befogged. And she could not justify it, a lie so depraved that the shit with which she painted herself by stating it would foul the air around her for the rest of her life, a walking miasma. She made no attempts to atone to him for it. She did nothing but try to rationalize why it was understandable. But that would never be understandable in any context in any universe. She had believed that she could sully his name however she wanted, and he would never be the wiser. But she was wrong. And he had the proof of her deception. She had lied to everyone, and, though he had chosen not to pursue it, knowing he would have prevailed, it was still the truth. 

Though he, bearing a conscience, was ashamed of his own behavior, everything he had said about her was true, and he had not sought to ruin her in public with added lies. It had happened, and she knew it well. But her dedication to her lies, to her own false virtue, to her fear of being judged for what she had really done, silenced the confession that her soul was in dire need of making … and she simply kept lying. And those around her kept buying it, endlessly believing she was the true victim … a repeat victim, who often said things that bore no sense, a red flag of red flags. But they kept giving her the benefit of the doubt, because, as she used them for attention, so they used her for the same. That was her world, all self-interest, all the time. 

For all her attempts to cast herself as empathetic, her heart held no real empathy, only the desire to shift attention back to herself. Her soul was stained with shit, and, because of that, any “love” she sought would be stained as well, built upon lies and as false as an artificial light. She would only attract sleaze, flies that were as low as she had made herself, like the ones she had already known—disgusting, perverted, using men. That was all she had earned for her vindictiveness. She would remarry and choose scum, because that is all that wanted her, all that would abide by her stain of shit. But she was a hypocrite. She had desired to ruin him as revenge for what she saw as his betrayal … because that was where her love lay, love she denied herself for the sake of appealing to her shallow crowd. And, for that, she had only ended up ruining herself, consigning herself to fake relationships built upon deceit. She would be Mrs. Glorified Shithead once more. But, in her coldness, even then, knowing she was pursued by flies, she refused to be ashamed of herself and refused to admit her sin. 

She condemned herself, and, for the grief she had engineered, he would never let her forget it.