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  • Writer's pictureJoshua Durchfort

Father and Son

My son was ill. He was losing his senses and acting strange - as if he couldn't control his feelings; he was always mad about something useless and tiny. My son was acting like a pubescent teenager who just got through his first break-up and thought that the world had ended and it had no meaning whatsoever. Well, honestly, I think that I may scare him a bit since he always talked about how unnerving my “vulture eyes” are. He was always staring at me as if he plans to kill me, which is frightening; his bloodshot eyes from drinking and smoking doesn't help either.


I was laying down in my bed, alone - with just me and my thoughts. My wife passed away some time ago and it obviously really affected me emotionally, but I think that it affected my son even more; in fact, I think that he started acting like this right after she passed away. I had not seen him smile for a while, and now I think that I should have done more things with him, you know…To make my son smile again…That would be nice. Nonetheless, as I laid down on my bed, I heard the door creaking. I didn't care, it was a door opening, nothing more could have happened, could it? I turned around because I felt as if someone was staring at me, and there he was, my son, looking at me as if I had just told him something abominable. He was grinning, and looked like he was almost crying with his red eyes. Time seemed to pass so slowly at this point because I had no idea of what could be happening, and the only thing that I could do was to shriek in despair. My own son killed his old man for nothing, not my money, not my actions, but because he felt like it, and here I am, talking to you, writing my final confession, dead, killed by my own son that I so dearly loved, I am so sorry…I would have done anything to make you happy.


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