Truth

Chapter 2

Thunder shook the mourning skies as the rain poured rhythmically onto the damp mud. A lone figure stood there, shrouded by the mist that came naturally with the rain.

"Damn it," Eliot muttered to himself as he looked up at the unmerciful sky.

Was the sky weeping along with him?

His dull black clothes stuck uncomfortably to his skin as he shifted, solemnly turning his gaze to the grave stone that was in front of him.

"Why?"

He whispered as though the grave stone was a person, a mixture of regret and sorrow expressed in one word.

He clenched his fists tightly, his fingernails dug deeply into his skin.

"Papa... Why did you have to leave?"

He closed his eyes, waiting for an answer but of course, the only sound was that of the falling rain.

He continued on, unmoved by the lack of response.

"You promised to tell me on my 15th birthday, you -" He stopped abruptly, realizing his mistake.

He paused, eyes closed as he took a deep breath of the musty air.

"I'm sorry, Papa. I... I almost called you a liar." He spoke softly, his eyes were softer now and his lips were quivering slightly.

Suddenly, the softness left his eyes, replaced by a kind of determination that was not previously there.

"You aren't a liar, I know that." His voice was louder and there was a certain finality to his tone.

He gulped tensely, he was going to talk about something; it was still a tender subject to him.

"The police officers say it was suicide," Eliot said loudly," And frankly, I don't believe a word they said."

Memories of the blood splattered street entered his mind, unwelcomed.

It was on a cloudless Tuesday evening. The sun was setting beautifully, disappearing behind a distant mountain.

Eliot was rushing back home from school on his bike.

He could remember the wind that whipped against his face and how much he enjoyed it as he cycled down a steep street. The world had seemed infinite then, almost pure...almost.

Eliot was not a fool. From a young age, ever since the disappearance of his mother, he had not believed in fairy tales, the world could never be innocent.

As he parked his bike in his front yard, for a moment, the temperature of the seemed to drop tremendously as he stood petrified. Something bad was going to happen. He could feel it, a sense of danger and worry crept through his veins.

At that very moment, a terrifying sound blasted through the air, followed by numerous sounds of wings flapping as a fleet of birds fled the area.  

A gunshot. Eliot's eyes widened as he turned to face the source of the sound-his house.

His father was in the house! He ran hurridly to the house, noting in horror that the door was unlocked. Papa never leaves the door unlocked, he says it's too unsafe, Elioy thought to himself.

He stepped inside, not bothering to take off his shoes as he quickly ran to the only place his father would be.

Anxiousness was killing him in the inside as he quickened his pace towards his father's room. He was always in there, working as a novelist. He often refused to come out for days, even weeks; he was always working to make ends meet, churning out novel after novel so that they could live a good life.

He stopped right before his father's room, his guts felt like live snakes, wriggling in all his worry. He took in a few deep breaths.

There is probably nothing to worry about. I'm over-reacting. 

With trembling fingers, Eliot reached out for the door knob. The metal felt so cold against his sweaty palms. The door creaked open as he slowly turned and pushed it forward.

The sight that he was before him turned the snakes that were in his gut into pure lead, cold and empty.

His heart skipped two beats as he struggled to comprehend the scene, his eyelids fluttering heavily as though he was trying to wake up from a horrible nightmare.

This can't be. It just can't.

There his father was, sitting on the usual arm chair, his head was on the desk, arms rested comfortably on the arm rest, a gun still held in his right hand.

"Papa?" He whispered to the man who sat by the desk.

No answer.

"This is some kind of sick joke, isn't it?" Eliot asked with a wide smile, although his eyes were already growing moist with hot tears. "You wanna see the reaction of a boy who sees his father's dead corpse for your novels?"

No answer.

"Well, you can stop with the acting now." He was growing more desperate with each word, the smile still lingering on his lips. "Just wake up and we can all laugh over this at dinner."

No answer.

He walked over to his father, whose face was lying on the desk, his messy hair covering almost everything. Crimson red blood was growing in a pool underneath, extending beyond his hair.

Eliot was half-expecting his father to suddenly shoot up and scare Eliot and then laugh at him for falling for his obvious prank.

He didn't.

Eliot's knees buckled, no longer able to withstand the huge pressure and his mind went blank, shock had overcome his mental state.

And for the first time since his mother disappeared, he cried. He cried for his mother, he cried for his father and he cried for himself.

If a concerned neighbour had not called the police regarding a gunshot in the neighbourhood, Eliot would most probably have stayed curled up in the room, slowly withering away.

Eliot could not tell if that was actually a better fate.