Embarrassed?

After placing down the phone, careful not to make any sound, she sat unseeing at the wall. Half-aware of herself, she sank her gaze into a void of stark, unimageable disbelief, where the thought of what she had just done was boldly staring back at her in the face. This was torment.

That moment hung suspended in time, unyielding, inflammatory, in silence; she caught sight of her own immorality. This was not embarrassment, this was shame.

The thought came once again, it seemed, with the sole purpose of ripping her conscience. It came calamitous, like a barbaric group of invaders from another land, pillaging and raking whatever there was to destroy. She thought of how, inside the castle was her safety, her relief; how, for every act comprising the outward perception of her character was compromised or poisoned, she could knock it out of her mind in a heartbeat. Now all that comfort was gone.

It was true, for inside the castle, the only thing left alive, was the repugnant smell of guilt.

…And it would not leave.