Horror Mansion: Short Stories

Nine - Confessional

I lost my daughter in a car accident. The last conversation I had with her plays like a broken record any moment I stare into the darkness.

"Dad, can I ride to school with Kat? Please?" Perfume hit me in a cloud. Her eyes shone her mother's emerald green. Our girl grew up faster than we noticed. Part of me wished I could've spent more time with her when she wasn't a teenager.

"Honey, you know she just started driving again. I'd rather you not," I advised. Kat lived three houses down and was in the same grade as my daughter. She totaled her car, losing control on a wet road while sending a text message. Her parents, both highly paid, bought her a new one, a better one after she luckily escaped with a few scratches.

"Dad, you are so horrible," she sighed out, rolling her eyes. I tried to hide a smile, turning it into an awkward smirk. She looked exactly like her mother in frustration. Her hair, newly highlighted with strands of red, dropped a thick strand over her eye which she tucked behind her ear.

"Have a good day," I said, leaning over. Reluctantly, she turned her cheek towards me and I gave her a kiss. She went to her room, slamming the door. Maybe I should've started spending more time with her. I wanted us to be close. I kissed my wife goodbye who was still in bed and drove to the hospital where I've worked for a decade.

I did my usual morning routine. Then, a call. It came ninety minutes later. The official sounding man asked me a name and a car model. He said they hadn't identified the bodies since the car caught fire, but they've recovered a purse. A school identification card led them to my work number. I hung up, grabbed my jacket, and left a room full of expectant patients behind. On my way to the scene, there was an indescribable pain in my chest.

After an hour of waiting at the hospital, we, along with Kat's parents, identified the bodies. My wife sobbed. After half an hour, while we were in some private waiting room, my wife began telling me she approved the ride request with Kat, the ride request I declined, in a sleep haze. Imagine how I felt. I didn't forgive her for a long time, and she felt guilty for the rest of her life. Two weeks later she found a lump in her breast; she told no one. I didn't care at first, and thought I never would. I thought she deserved it after letting our daughter go with Kat.

I was so wrong, and it didn't occur to me at the time that she was struggling not only with the death of our daughter, but the guilt that she played a part in it. Rage blinded me then, and I wish that it hadn't.

The cancer spread over the course of two years, and the first year of that I spent resenting and cursing her. The following six months I spent realizing that I didn't want her gone. I was so overcome with grief about the death of our daughter that I didn't think about her mother until then. When my mind was finally clear, I remembered just how much they looked and acted alike. Our daughter may have been lost, but she still lived through her mother. With that, I was able to feel slightly relieved. The last six months I spent loving her again.

I watched her spend the remainder of her days on a bed at my hospital. I split my time between work and the room, holding back tears every visit. When she finally passed, I couldn't stay in our house. So I moved. The house reminded me too much of them, and my heart filled with anger each time I saw Kat's parents. Indirectly, they also played a part with the death of my daughter. I never forgave them either.

When I moved, I wanted to make sure I was still a short car ride of the cemetery. I wanted to visit their graves weekly, and I did. I sulked and hoped for the day I could join them to come. I was depressed, but not to the point of suicide. I'll join them when I'm meant to.

To make my life worse, every gathering required rehashing family history. There hasn't been one where my wife and daughter weren't mentioned, and eventually I've come to loathe these events and stopped going.