All of them died. Died not because of me. I was out to hang out with friends. When i got home, i found my house had burnt down. My whole family couldn’t escape. They were inside and had never got out from the fire. I wasn’t there. The fire did it all until it ended by the rain. It was the thing that killed them, explosion from leaking gas pipe.
It wasn’t because of me. But why i feel so guilty? I survived. They died. It was of fire. I wasn’t there.
My mind had always been engulfed since the tragic occurence. The storm of memories which was mixed of the fire and my family were the very reason of my incapicated logic.
“Why i wasn’t there?” I asked myself in front of the dirty mirror, again and again. The mirror always answers me with the same word of ‘silence’. It was always grey, covered with ashes created by the most remorseful-triggering inferno—–left overs from what it is meant to be regreted.
“Maybe it was actually because of me? What if i were there? Maybe i could sense the fire before it went berserk? If i were there, maybe there would be no fire and no one would die.”
Screw! It was my fault. If i were there, i wouldn’t let it happen. I have a powerful sense of smell. I could have known the gas before it erupted.
It was of fire. And the fire was of me. It was my fault. I got home. My family couldn’t ever welcomed me anymore. I should have got home earlier. Before the fire started. Before my family couldn’t get out from the flames.
It was of me. The leaking gas. The fire. The no escapee. It was of me. It was all my fault.
How could i barely accept the fact that i was the only survivor? Especially after i killed my whole family? How could i live like that?
I am a murderer who murdered people by letting fire burn down my house into painful ashes. Grey. Sad. Feeling-less.
It seems not real. It seems like a fiction. But after awhile i realized it was all truly my fault. If i were at house.
The ashes wouldn’t look so grey…