Entry 1

Assume entries are daily unless otherwise specified

My father died today. I’ve been in this world for 34 years and never did I cry so vigorously. Not even when my sweet wife and only son died did I weep with such passion. I even watched him die. I watched his blood cover our front lawn. I watched his lifeless body fall to the ground. I should’ve stopped him. I could’ve stopped him. I don’t know why I didn’t. It’s as if I didn’t want to accept what I saw him doing. At least until it was too late.

It was early morning and time to wake him up. He usually didn’t require this service, but I liked to check on him anyway. His room was empty by the time I had gotten there. The entire room lay in shambles. The bed had been over turned and the sheets had been torn apart. The chair at his desk had been tossed out the window. The rug that previously inhabited the floor was no where to be seen and numerous gouges adorned the walls and floor seemingly randomly. I frantically searched his room for him with no results.

His desk was the only thing unharmed, but all objects that previously sat atop it had either been broken and tossed about or impaled in the wall. All but a single piece of parchment. Hastily at first, but then with greater care, I read the note. It was from my father.

“Dear Son,” the note read, “You more than anyone else has seen and felt the evidence of my deteriorating state. You may not have seen all that I have, but you’ve seen me and I know that my sad excuse for an existence saddens you and for that I’m sorry. I never meant or ever wanted to be a burden. I love you and I’m sorry that it had to end this way. I’m leaving you with everything, including the pistol you’ll find in my hand. May your mind serve you better than mine did. –Lord Curlingtonfield I”

I stared in horror at the note. I couldn’t believe it. So many thoughts rushed through my mind. Then, through the broken window I could hear the sound of the front door open and slam shut. I ran to the window. There I saw my father walk onto the lawn. I breathed a sigh of relief, seeing him in health. I prepared to go downstairs and outside to meet him, then he reached into his coat and pulled out the very pistol that his letter mentioned. My heart stopped. I screamed through the broken window. I pleaded to him. I shouted until my throat hurt. He turned around, facing now the building. He looked up at me and I fell silent. I could feel tears streaming down my face. He raised the pistol to his head. I don’t know whether it was actually him or my imagination, but I could hear him whisper “I’m sorry”.

My father died today. Right before my eyes. I buried him, too. I thought about burying that accursed firearm with him, but I decided against it. It was the only item he explicitly gave to me. The only thing I now have to remember him by. I miss my father.