Regret. It is an emotion of such intensity that it repeatedly stabs me in the stomach like an ice pick.  I was living in complete oblivion to how truly unbearable regret could be, until my foolish choices put me in this situation.  Regret is a bitter, cold emotion.  It leads to such severe self-loath, that simply living underneath my revolting skin is unendurable.  I will probably die here, in this frigid, dark place.  My final breath will be stolen by these four horrendous walls.  I never would have guessed that today, of all days, would turn out the way it did.
I began my day by waking abruptly to the sound of my alarm at 7 A.M.  Before opening my eyes, I took a deep breath.  “Today is the day,” I whispered to myself eagerly.  I jumped out of bed and into the shower.  However, I was forced to cut my shower short due to the buzzing of my cellphone.  I scrambled to grab a towel and then answered the phone.  “Hello?” I mumbled, slightly annoyed to be burdened by the call. 
“Matthew? Are you there?” a concerned voice asked. 
“Sorry, I mean, hi Mom,” I greeted. “I’m just getting ready for my job interview. It’s at 8:30, so I’m really running late.” 
“Oh, okay. I just called to tell you that I love you and I believe in you.  Oh, and have confidence!  Anyone who wouldn’t hire such a charming, handsome, young man like you shouldn’t be running any business!” 
“Alrighty mom,” I laughed.  “And thanks. I love you too.” 
As I finished dressing, I pondered everything I was going to say.  This had been my fifth interview this month, but I was feeling different about this one.  I desperately wanted a job, especially in journalism, and I felt certain that this was the one I would end up acquiring.  It was for a local New York City magazine that contained current city news, opinions, trends, and more.  Besides, I could not stand having to let my mother pay my rent any longer.  I was ready to begin taking care of myself once again. 
At 8:05, I grabbed an apple, ran out my apartment door, and down to the subway train.  As I was hurrying down the street, a man tripped and spilled his coffee all over my shirt and tie. Horrified, I continued walking because I was already running late.  I nervously walked into the building, and up the staircase to the office floor.  I told the secretary that I was here for a job interview.  “Okay, just have a seat,” she said as she tried not to look directly at my coffee-soaked shirt. 
There were three other applicants in the waiting room, so I grabbed a sports magazine and slumped down into an empty chair.  Embarrassed by my appearance, I avoided looking at anyone.  However, as I attempted to read the sports article that I truly had no interest in, I began to feel slightly uncomfortable.  I glanced up to see one of the men in the office staring at me intensely. What, have you never seen a guy with a stain on his shirt? I thought to myself, annoyed.  I tried to concentrate harder on the magazine, but I could see in my peripheral that the man hadn’t disengaged his eyes.  Is he even blinking? I wondered.  I began to feel extremely uneasy.  As I mindlessly stared at the magazine, I felt a bead of sweat roll down my forehead. 
I then realized that my right shoulder was becoming oddly warm, and I turned to see a window directly behind me.  I laughed to myself, realizing that the man was not staring at me, but gazing out the window.  I stood up to move anyway, for it was still enough to make me uncomfortable, and the heat was not helping to calm my nerves.  I sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the room, and took a deep breath of relief.  I felt silly for letting myself become so anxious.  I knew, however, that it was better to feel silly than frightened.  I looked up from the magazine to scan the room. It seemed that the company had some interior decorating done.  The waiting room was charming, with light gold walls and blue accented décor.  I wondered why I had so frightened in such a calm, peaceful room.
My stomach then dropped.  I turned to look at the man from before, who had turned his head, and yet again, had his haunting eyes locked on me.
The precise moment I looked directly into his eyes, I suddenly remembered everything.  I recognized the man as someone I had hoped to never see again, Kenneth Rogers.
“Mr. Reynolds?” I heard the receptionist call.  “You’re up.”  It was startling to hear my name being called after such a terrifying realization.  Instead of standing up and letting the receptionist lead me to my interview, as I would have easily done twenty minutes ago, I ran out of the office building in the most intense panic I had ever experienced. 
As I slipped into the elevator, I began to recall the most hideous chapters of my childhood. 
“Matthew, Where have you been?” my father questioned sharply.
“I was at the park, father,” I answered reluctantly. “Jonathan’s tenth birthday party was today, and he was really hoping I could make it.”  My father’s facial expression then became twisted and bitter, as it had many times before.  “He’s my best friend, Father,” I helplessly whispered. 
Before I could utter another word, a beer bottle was pitched directly at my head.  I ducked just in time to miss it, and let out a terrified cry. 
“I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you all day, Matthew,” my father stated, his anger rising. 
“I told you where I was going Father, why don’t you remember?” I pleaded.
“Shut up, you little creep!” my father yelled, causing me to cringe. He then shot out of his chair with his fists clinched tight.
“Father, I,-” but before I could finish my sentence, he jumped across the room and started striking me with his fists.
My mind then flashed forward to yet another memory. “And the winner of the Eighth Grade Spelling Bee is…” Mrs. Greg paused to add dramatic effect.  “Kenneth Rogers!”  The crowd joyously applauded Kenneth as he stood with a prideful smile on his face. I watched him strut onto the stage to accept his award, loathing every movement he made.  He was everything I wanted to be: a scholar, an artist, and a winner.  The community praised him for all of his accomplishments, and I knew that I would forever live in his shadows.  It was almost as if I were in a daze as I followed Kenneth to the school bathroom, cornered him, and began hitting him.  I took every inch of anger I had held inside for years out on Kenneth’s body.  My heart was beating so intensely that I was incapable of hearing his screams.
I was abruptly brought back to reality when I heard the elevator ding, so I proceeded to run outside.  I had not had a panic attack in fifteen years, but from experience, I knew the exact procedure for what to do when one did occur.  I quickly walked farther and farther away from the building, staring at my shoes to avoid eye contact with any pedestrians I might encounter. I was unsure of where my feet would take me, but I knew that simply taking the walk would clear my head.  Seeing Kenneth in that office building brought back the nightmarish feelings I had felt as a child.  As I walked I wondered how Kenneth found me, and if he had even been looking for me.  The most terrifying question of all, however, was if Kenneth was here for revenge.
I abruptly felt myself bump into someone on the sidewalk, and as I looked up to see whom it was, I felt the color drain from my face.  I was in the presence of Kenneth Rogers, once more.  A million thoughts were drilling themselves into my head all at once.  Kenneth had found me, and he was here seeking revenge. 
Without even realizing it at first, I wrapped my hands around Kenneth’s neck, and began choking the life out of him.  I could not stop myself, and I did not want to.  I refused to fake my sanity for another second.  All of the years I was forced to spend in the mental hospital ceased to matter anymore, and I was back to my old self again.  As Kenneth’s face turned purple, I thought about how disappointed my mother would be.  She was never able to see me thrive through high school, or walk across the graduation stage.  The only time I was able to spend with her was in that cold, hideous hospital room.  I was overjoyed to finally be released from there, but I assumed I would be sent back after this incident, and I truly did not care.  Kenneth would finally be dead, and after all these years, I would feel content. 
I heard a blood-curdling scream come from behind, and I turned around to see a woman pointing at me.  “What have you done?” another witness exclaimed.  I turned back around to see a body sprawled out on the ground that I did not recognize. It then hit me.  I had not strangled Kenneth, but an innocent stranger. 
I was in a complete state of shock when the police officer knocked me to the ground and put me in handcuffs.  I could not force a word out of my mouth when New York’s best detectives aggressively interrogated me.  The most heart-wrenching occurrence, however, was when my mother came into the police station.  “Why, Matthew?” she wailed at me.  “Why would you ruin your life again?” 
Later on that evening, a man I overheard someone refer to as Detective Graham came to my cell to interrogate me.  This time, however, he seemed to have a sense of calmness to him.  “Matthew, why did you kill that man?” he asked.
“I… I don’t know. I thought he was someone else.” I nervously replied.
“You thought he was Kenneth Rogers, didn’t you?” 
“How did you?”
“Your mother told me.”
Detective Graham and I simply stared at each other for a moment, and then he continued. “Your mother told me that when you were thirteen years old, you murdered a classmate, Kenneth Rogers, in the school bathroom,” he paused, “With your bare hands.”
I cringed hearing the detective vocalize the most horrifying details of my childhood. 
“After spending fourteen years in a mental illness center, you proved to all of the doctors that you could be trusted, and that your rough childhood was the reason for your actions.  They announced that you weren’t sick, but required you take a medication pill to calm your nerves, and to help keep your mind off the trauma you experienced years ago.”
“I was running late this morning,” I explained.  “I didn’t have time to take the medicine, but I didn’t think it would matter if I forgot to take it for one mere day.” 
Detective Graham angrily slammed his fist on the table, causing me to jump.  “But it does matter!  If you would have just simply taken your medicine like you are required to do everyday, then you wouldn’t have these had hallucinations that caused you to mistake random people on the street for Kenneth Rogers, and then you wouldn’t have murdered somebody!” he paused, and then spoke softer.  “If you would have simply taken your medicine, you wouldn’t be considered a danger to society, and you would be living a free life.  But you don’t have that option anymore.” 
I remember screaming until my voice box ceased to work anymore as the policemen dragged me away.  I was driven to a place I recognized immediately: the mental hospital I grew up in.  Only this time, I was taken into a room I had never been in before.  I was tied into a straightjacket when it finally registered in my mind that this is where I would spend the rest of my days.  I would never receive that journalism job, fall in love, or freely walk the streets again. 
This is where I have been since.  Sometimes, I imagine that there are beautiful pictures on the wall, and that they are talking to me.  There is no trouble in here, only the walls, and the floor.  I think that the ceiling is starting to become my very best friend.  I must admit, the unbearable feeling I had in my stomach has slowly faded away, and I have begun to feel a certain sense of comfort in this tiny room.
I have probably been in here for six hours now.  Of course, I still regret the choices I made that put me here, but I truly feel happy in the company of this room.