The stairs leading up to the third floor of the complex were dim, lit only by a flickering lamp. All the windows were stained with fingerprints, dirt, scratches. Every step he took was accompanied by the crunch of broken glass or discarded plastics. The air was a mix of human odor and dollar store alcohol: the definition of a crack house. Hair messy, eyes half-lidded in sorrow, he ascended up the concrete stairs.

It had been so many years now. He was in his thirties, and they were only a year younger than he. The memories of the affection they'd once shared had faded, but his feelings for them had not.

The peeling door was left open, only sealed by a coat of rust growing on the edges. They must have moved a thousand times since he'd left, from city to city, and then to crumbling town on the very outskirts of the country.

He stood in the threshold of the living room, the state of the place sickening. The old couch they'd had since they were a teenager was placed in the center of the room, the stripes faded from abuse, spilled liquid, body fluids that had long since dried and crusted into the once-soft fabric. It reeked, and yet, he couldn't bring himself to judge them.

Their breaths were shallow, cheeks hollowed out, brittle nails holding onto the threadbare blanket that hung loosely from their legs. The front of their shirt was stained with putrid vomit. Still, he took a knee. They would always be divine in his eyes.

He pressed his lips to the corner of their mouth, their lips parted as their little lungs struggled. He'd become desensitized to guilt over the years; it was all for the greater good, he knew. It was why he was here now, though the cyanide tablets remained heavy in his pocket.

There was a time when all he wanted was to keep his little baby for himself. Now, though, he'd rather death have them than pain. He breathed out against her cracked lips. "Forgive me, dove."