I whispered in her head and ate at her sick stomach. Day and night I beat on her conscience. The satisfaction I felt, as tears streaked her perfect cheeks, was nearly overwhelming. Slowly other secrets vanished from her conscience from ear to mouth and over and over again. The worst of all, me, was still safety stashed inside.

She became so horribly ill. I no longer could rejoice in her pain. My own conscience ached for her, and fear swept over me. The secrets, like myself, kept inside were more horrible than the ones that broke away. I was unfortunately still the worst.

Her body began to slightly swell, and her stomach took shape of a small- rounded balloon. If I hadn’t known better I would’ve guessed the pain I caused was taking its toll, and this was my fault. The cruel words I once whispered to her became soft, quiet, encouraging pleas. Day and night I begged her to spit me out and set me free. She and I both knew it wouldn’t be safe for her too much longer.

Two months later her clothes wouldn’t fit. My pleas grew louder and more forceful. My final attempt to escape was successful, but only after a long deliberation. She cried out of relief as I escaped from her lips. I was replaced with truth and love that very same day.