Blame

"Once, maybe in my five-hundredth life, I had a son. I adored him with all my heart—yet I failed him."

"I tried to live a normal life, away from all the shit I usually deal with, far from anomalies, madness, and the General."

"I had a wife, a son, a normal job. Unfortunately, my wife died from a rare, incurable disease. Because of that, I had to work even harder to provide for my son, since she had also worked and together we'd supported the family financially."

"I barely spent time at home, never shared moments with my son. He'd seek me out, with that smile I adored so much, but I always made excuses—saying I was tired, that we'd play later, or go somewhere someday. Obviously, that was a lie."

"Gradually, my son's smile lost its light, and he stopped coming to me. I guess he'd given up on seeking my attention. I noticed him growing colder, his eyes sometimes red—but I ignored it, lying to myself that it was normal, maybe just teenage hormones."

"One day, before leaving for work, I heard him crying. Again, I ignored it. I was late for the office, and to me, it wasn't unusual—or so I told myself."

"That same day, when I came home, the house was dead silent. No sign of movement. It felt off, so I shouted my son's name—no answer. Panic set in. I searched everywhere until I reached his room."

"The door was locked. I had to break the knob to force it open. Inside, I saw a scene I'll never forget: My son's body slumped over his desk, stained red, his brain matter scattered around. A revolver lay beside him. Dried tears still streaked his cheeks."

"I stood there, staring for an unmeasurable time, stunned—my brain refusing to process what I was seeing."

"After who knows how long, I snapped out of it. I walked to him, hugged him without thinking, and wiped the tears from his face."

"Later, I buried him and held a funeral. Since we had no other family, I was the only one who attended. What surprised me was that none of his friends came."

"I tried to keep living normally, making excuses again—telling myself it wasn't my fault, that I had nothing to do with his choice, that I had my own problems and couldn't fix everything."

"I lied to myself like that for a while, until one day, I couldn't keep up the act. While eating, tears started rolling down my face."

"Why had I ignored my son's emotions? Why wasn't I there for him? Why didn't I hug him and ask how he felt? Why had I lied for so long? These questions and more looped in my head, repeating endlessly as guilt ate me alive."

"In a brief moment of clarity, another question hit me: How was I the only one at his funeral? My son—the kindest, brightest person I knew—had no one to stand by him in his darkest times? Of course… except for me."

"Too late, I started digging into his life."

"I learned all his friends had abandoned him after a rumor spread that he'd abused his girlfriend. It was bullshit. His own girlfriend started it—just because she wanted to leave him and didn't know how, and she wanted to hurt him as much as possible."

"Rage consumed me. I wanted to make his ex and his so-called friends pay. How dare they hurt my son? He'd helped everyone he could, never treated anyone poorly, even when they wanted to harm him. I was ready to go out and slaughter them all—until a thought crossed my mind."

"How could I be such a hypocrite? I was the first one who walked away. That's why he never told me any of this. Maybe if he had, he'd still be alive. Again, I was trying to escape blame."

"Instead of making things worse for his memory, I decided to clear his name—to fix something, even if it was too late. I confronted his friends, showed them proof the rumors were lies, that he was innocent."

"(How I got that proof is another story.) But even then, the fury in my chest didn't fade. It grew every second until I couldn't hold back. I went to his ex's place and, from a distance, implanted a psychological trigger of madness—I made her completely insane, doomed to isolation, abandoned by everyone."

"Still, the anger didn't go away. This time, though, I was furious at myself. Again, I was running from guilt."

"I started writing a letter to my son. I went to his grave with the letter and a chocolate bar in hand—his favorite."

"I stared at his tombstone for a long time, my eyes dry from crying so much. Finally, I looked away, my gaze landing on a nearby tree."

"I left the letter and chocolate on his grave, then walked to the tree and pulled a rope from nowhere. I tied a noose. I couldn't keep living with this guilt eating me alive every second."

"Before ending it all, I took one last look at his grave and spoke words that had been stuck in my throat for so long:

'Forgive me, son.'

"With that, I put the rope around my neck and pulled—ending my life."

The letter read:

"Hello, son,

I hope you're well, wherever you are. If by some chance you ever read this, know that I love you. I can't say I'm sorry—no amount of apologies could make up for the pain I caused you. Instead, I'll say this: I miss you. I miss your smile, your excitement when I gave you your favorite chocolate bar, the way you tried to cheer me up when I was down. I miss you, son. I could never do half of what you did. I wasn't there to support you like a real father should've been. So, I've decided I won't run anymore. I'll face the consequences of my actions—try to mend something, even if it's already broken. I couldn't stand by you in life. Now, I'll join you in death.

With eternal love,

—Dad."