It’s My Fault

This is a confession that requires a bit of backstory to understand. I loved my son like nothing I’ve ever loved before. He had always been the light to guide me every time I felt stuck in the dark. That was of course until the accident. Exactly two years ago today, my house caught fire and burned to ashes… taking my son along with it. His remains if there were any, were never found. His ashes were probably mixed in with the ones from my house. I-I was the one who lit the house on fire. I left the iron on and it started a fire that spread across the house. It was just an accident I swear. But, it cost me the life… of my only shred of family left.

After the incident, I moved to an apartment block not far from where my old house was. Honestly, I was thinking on moving into a completely different district, but due to financial restrictions, I wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Every time I came back from work, I would always pass by the ruins of my old house. I’d get flashbacks to the incident from time to time after seeing this but after a while it just started to fade away. But one particular day, I drove past my house and I swear… I saw my son… standing right in the middle of the property. I imagine most people got pretty startled after hearing this. Don’t worry I did to the first time I saw it. But believe it or not, I actually started getting used to this.

Every so often, on my way home from work, I would see him just standing there in the rubble. Staring at my car driving past. With a concerned but somehow bone chilling look on his face. From time to time he would even be staring right at me in my bedroom window in my apartment whenever I woke up in the middle of the night. Every time I saw him, I always felt a feeling of guilt that would stay until I go to bed. I am the reason he is… like this after all. I’d always be tempted to walk over, pat him on the back to tell him “It’s okay, daddy is here,” just like I did every time I saw him upset before he passed on. It would always cheer him up.

The closest I have ever interacted with him was a couple months ago when I walked over to the property one morning before work and asked quietly into the wind if anyone is there. That night, I found a beat up old article from a newspaper on my bed. When I turned it around, there were the words “I need to see you daddy. Please” painted on with what I think is red ink. My heart raced around my chest in excitement knowing that maybe just maybe I can still talk to or see my son again. I got out of work early the next day to go and see him at the property of our old house and… He didn’t ever show up. Neither did he show up again after that. Until now.

It’s already been a few months after I last saw him and today is supposed to be the day the remains of our house gets demolished and burned away. The property is filled with large tools left over by the construction crew which is surely capable of destroying all the remains. But just an hour ago… I noticed my son again… sitting across the road from our property… it looked as if he was crying though it isn’t clear from how dark it is down there. I-I have to go see him. Cheer him up. See his face again once more. I just have to. I decided to record everything that happened on my phone which is what I’m doing right now. I should be back soon to record how he reacted to seeing me. The father that misses him so dearly. But somehow… I still have this jittery feeling at the bottom of my spine. I-If I’m not back to record the rest of this… assume the worst…