Chapter 9

I woke up with a jolt. Breathing heavily and bathed in sweat.

After blinking a few times, my vision cleared and I reached for the water bottle on the nightstand. I could not calm my nerves even after finishing the whole bottle.

Suddenly, grief hit me like an ocean wave during a storm, dark and treacherous. So did anger.

I felt anger towards my father for trying to save me.

I felt anger towards the driver for having a heart attack.

But mostly felt anger towards myself. For being so stubborn. So spoilt. So selfish.

I threw the empty bottle across the room to dissipate some of the anger, where it hit the wall and fell on the floor with a tap. Then I slipped off the bed and sat on the floor with my knees pulled up to my chest and head in my hands, still breathing heavily. I was thinking of everything that could have been had I not behaved that way.

If only had I not been such a brat my father would have been alive. Mom would have loved me like before. I would have grown up with both my parents.

The terrifying image of the wrecked car is still in my brain and replays every time it shows an accident on the news. I still remember the moment I saw the wreckage. The bright sun reflected off the shattered glass on the pavement. The shell of the car sparkled in various ways as the sunlight hit its different bents and cracks. It would have been beautiful if it was not for the death that followed. My mother's scream still echoes like the cry of a banshee, predicting the death of some poor human. The grey and black smoke that looked like the ragged cloak of a reaper flew up and got mixed with the surrounding air making it difficult to breathe. The red blood falling in drops from my father's hand and onto the pavement making an artistic mess. The empty, dull shine of my father's eye that seemed to be looking at everything, yet nothing at the same time, lost into oblivion forever. The smell of burnt rubber, fuel, thick smoke, drying blood, and scalding flesh, all filled the atmosphere surrounding the accident making the incident known to everyone who would breathe in, suffocating me as I approached the scene, making me aware of the grievous crime I had committed.

Every detail was so fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Even though it had been 18 years.

That day not only had I killed one person but destroyed the life of another. My mother.

After that day she was never the same. It was not like she was determined to make my life hell and punish me every second for what I did. She was never violent with me. But she did not exactly love me like before either.

Before dad died mom and I were pretty close. Sometimes I would help her cook. Sometimes follow her while she worked around the house and tell her about all the things I would do when I grow up and she would look at me with sparkling eyes and say that I can be whatever I want as long as I don't harm anyone. She had a weird obsession with coins and would show me her collection, explain the details of some interesting ones, tell me about some she was yet to collect and I would promise to gift it on her birthday when I would earn and she would laugh and ruffle my hair.

All of this stopped after the accident.

We never talked so much anymore. Sometimes it seems that she deliberately avoids my gaze to prevent interaction. Suddenly we were strangers rather than mother and son. Pretending like the other one did not exist.

The distance grew even bigger as I got older. Her hatred started to materialize. She would criticize each and everything I did, blame me for things I did not know had happened. This made me hate myself even more. Because I knew that the reason for her behavior, her stress was myself. But she never mentioned the accident. Like she was trying to forget it. Until one day.

It happened when I was 15 years old. I had gotten into a fight with some boys at school and gifted one a bloody nose another a broken tooth and myself a three-day suspension. The principal had called mom and she had to leave her school to hear a complaint. It was not until we reached home and I tried to justify my actions that she got angry. She said was it not enough for me to kill my father that I tried to kill two more. She claimed that I had destroyed her life. I was a black mark, staining her perfect life. She said it would have been better if that day it was me that died rather than my father.

All the while I had nothing to say to defend myself. I knew every word she said was true and nothing I didn't tell myself. If only she had known how much hurt I was, maybe she would not have said all those things. But I am glad that she did. Because after that there was no tension between us. We stopped talking for a long time and we did start it was always out of necessity.

Now there were even fewer chances of meeting her, let alone talk to her. Right now I wanted to talk to her more than ever. I wanted to call her and say I was sorry for hurting her, how much I hated myself since that day, how much I missed dad. But mom made it clear that she did not any connection with me when she did not allow me to take the only picture of dad and me I had left.

And I did not blame her. Because I hate myself much more than she hates me. It feels sickening every time I look at my reflection. I bear his eyes yet he is dead, while I continue to live on.

No matter how long it has been, there are times when it becomes harder to breathe.

There is nothing I wish for myself more than death. Yet I am too coward to do anything myself. Countless times I tried to kill myself and all those times stopped because I was too afraid of the pain.

And now all I want to do is vanish.

To fade.