I have nothing to put here, but my writing looks weird if I don't have something bolded up here. So... Yeah.
Mr. Egbert arrived home late that night. He felt bad because he had promised that John and him would spend some father-son time together, but he was sure John would understand. The two of them could go out to dinner the next day.
He hastily unlocked the front door, mentally preparing an apology for his son. He opened the door and stepped inside. He set his briefcase down and took off his coat.
"John!" Mr. Egbert called out. "I'm home!"
His brow furrowed at the lack of response. Maybe John was listening to music with headphones?
He went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled louder than before. "Jonathan!"
He waited to hear the usual response of "Coming, dad!", but heard nothing.
He frowned. What on Earth was that boy doing? Mr. Egbert went upstairs to his son's room. He knocked on the door.
"John?"
Inside, he still found no sign of John. Perhaps he had gone to the bathroom?. He walked the short distance to the upstairs bathroom and knocked.
"Are you in there?"
After no one answered, he tried to open the door to find it was locked. Dread dropped to the pit of his stomach. Why would the door be locked? He had expressly forbidden John to lock any doors; only Mr. Egbert was allowed to do that.
He hurried to take out his wallet which held his driver's licence. After several failed attempts, he managed to unlock the door. He threw the door open. "Jonathan Sassacre Eg-"
He stopped in his tracks, horrified by the sight before him. He had now seen something no parent should have to see: his dead son.
John was sprawled out in the bathtub, fully dressed, blood and room temperature water surrounding him. Tears were streaked down his face. His arms were covered with scars: some faint and thin, others clearly more recent, more deep. Then there were the most recent, the ones deep enough to make him bleed out all alone.
Mr. Egbert slowly walked towards his son. "J-Johnny? Oh god!" He collapsed to the floor next to the tub, fumbling for John's wrist from the sticky, salty-smelling blood-water. He felt for a pulse, but this only guaranteed what he had already known; his son was gone, and he would never get him back. Tears sprung in the man's eyes as he looked at his son- his own flesh and blood- and wondered what could have possibly driven John to do this.
Was it his fault? Mr. Egbert was no doctor, but he could tell from the slightly clotted wounds marring his son's skin that if he had arrived home on time, he could have stopped this.
"I'm so sorry, John. I'm sorry, please come back."
He shamelessly cried over his son's dead body. How could this happen? Everything had seemed fine with him until now. He didn't recall John ever coming home and saying anything negative about his day at all. He had always seemed like such a content, chipper young man.
He stood and looked down at the macabre scene before him. For the first time, he noticed a small note next to the bathtub.
It was not a poem, nor was it an amazing speech. It probably wouldn't touch the hearts of many souls out of context. It was just a few sentences, yet it was more than enough to leave Mr. Egbert reeling in despair.
"Are you still proud of me, dad? Because I'm not. I'm sorry I didn't grow up to be the man you imagined I'd be, but I guess it's a bit too late for apologies... Sorry."