My heart froze itself in my chest, not daring to make a noise for fear that I might be found if it did. I could feel my mind rushing, my hands shaking uncontrollably, but at least my heart was silent. The closet door was shut tightly against the wall, not allowing any noise to pass through, and my father was still looking. It had been a while, but he still hadn't found me. I had picked the best hiding spot in the entire house, and he would never find me. Father knew that I was terrified of the basement, so the basement closet was the best place for me.838Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbIsHEtyQCn
It was there, bundled underneath the blankets, sitting on the cool wooden floors that were covered in cobwebs, that I made the worst mistake of my entire life. It wasn't intentional, no, it was a complete and utter mistake. I did not hurt anyone, or say anything wrong, or even do anything that I could have ever fathomed would end poorly. The simple thing that I did was not respond.
"Chris...," he called. I giggled softly, pulling my knees up to my chest and burying my head in my legs. I was the best. I was completely hidden. "Come out Chris...," I giggled again. I did not come out; he would just have to find me. I wasn't afraid anymore, but I was filled with joyous confidence. No one could have found me.838Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXiO0P5HqLT
I heard footsteps coming down the basement stairs, at a frantic, disturbing pace. They didn't sound the the steady pad of footsteps that usually accompanied my father's light and playful steps. They sounded angry, with a fury that could have rattled the devil himself. Was I in trouble? Should I reveal my hiding spot? No, this was a trick, and I wanted to win.
"Chris!?" I heard him call out one last time, and I shrunk. It was all just a game, and he couldn't find me, so he just wanted to freak me out and make me leave my spot. He would never find me otherwise. The footsteps stopped, and I waited. I waited for about twenty more minutes, before I heard a bloodcurdling crash outside of the closet door. I heard a crash, such a crash that I feared the ceiling would fall on my before I ever got a chance to leave the dank, light-less room. I screamed, but not because I was scared, but because I had heard another scream so piercing and so bloodcurdling that one cannot help but to accompany it with their own cries of agony. I heard him calling, calling for me, saying my name over and over, and this time I moved.
My blankets were wrapped round me, as if they were a cocoon of chains that would not allow me to see my father, not like this. When I finally got the door opened, I was met by a pitch darkness that my eyes could not pierce. The cold air hit me like ice, and I sure felt like ice was consuming every inch of me. Numb, my legs refused to move. Heavy, my arms refused to lift. The door was locked shut, with the deadbolt, and it seemed as if it took every ounce of strength from my body just to lift a hand and turn it. My hairs stood on end, each and every one of them, preparing me for the storm that I was about to run into. The door flew opened, but I do not remember moving.
My legs carried my little body to the light switch in an instant that felt like an eternity. I threw my arm forward, forcing light into the void of nothingness that I could perceive. It were blinding against my un-adjusted eyes, but I followed the sound of the coughing. Actually, it was less of a coughing, and more of a frightening wheezing that reminded me of my asthma attacks. A body, limp against the tiles, covered in blood. It was a morbid sight, kicking me into reality. He was still, and even though I did not think to check, I could tell that he was not breathing any longer. I fell onto my knees, snapped into a hazy reality that I was unable to escape from. My hand found his hand and I grasped it like a lifeline, willing life to be returned to the lifeless eyes before me.
He stared up at the ceiling, the lights reflected in his eyes, but he did not focus on anything His mouth twitched, his hand fell, and that was the end. No dramatic, touching end that left me with a beautiful moment to remember. It was just him and I, in the barely illuminated basement, me crying horrendously and his life slipping quickly in a a pool of his own blood. And I couldn't save him.
His last thoughts were of me, and I ignored him. I ignored him completely.
...
I don't remember calling the police on that day, but somehow, they found their way into my home. A single, deep stab wound to the chest with a thin, long knife, and my father was legally pronounced dead upon the paramedic's arrival at the scene. The knife they found still in my father's chest, buried deep in the center of his left lung. It was officially a suicide, but no prints were left on the knife. There's no way it was a suicide, the knife was angled downward in such a way that my father would have to turn his wrists around and launch himself forward to plant it so deep into his chest.
The stumbling, the calling, the coughing. It couldn't have been suicide. We were playing a game, and my father wouldn't do that to me. He loved us too much to let himself die. Instead, I let him die, and he died with my name on his breaths. My mother was driven mad by the incident, pulling us even farther apart. At nine years old, I learned the morbid reality of mortality, and the inevitable difference created in my life that would never be filled.
My mother had remarried and had my younger brother, Max, with my step-father. I call him Jason, not father. I love him, even more than I love my mother, but I do not love him enough to give him the title that belongs to greatest man I've ever known. Am I shutting him out? Am I just bitter? Definitely, but I can't get over it. I get panic attacks to this day, because I am the only one who knows the truth. I have an empty cavity inside of me, void of emotion, that was stolen from me that day I stayed in the basement closet as my father called my name. I cannot look at my mother, at Max, at Jason, at father, or even at myself in the mirror without feeling a stabbing pang of guilt and self-loathing at the thought of my childish giggling in the closet while my only source of innocence and love was, in all certainty, having his last minutes of left spent alone.
I know what happened. There's not room for error in my mind. The angle of the knife, the lack of father's fingerprints on the knife, and the terrified cries downright proved the suicide impossible. It was just downright impossible, but I found myself unable to share that news with anyone. Even now, years after, that secret remained in my head, only revealed in my dreams, where I am unable to save him, every single time. The dark thoughts linger in my head, whispering evil nothings that will haunt me as long as I live. As I get older, I am no longer able to lie to myself.
My father did not kill himself.
My father was murdered.
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