It was once said a child must bury their parents, not the parents to bury the child.
Unfortunately, there are times where the parents must bury the child.
For many, it is a formidable thought, yet it is a indiscernible reality those many face. The Angel of Demise swoops down on his prey, feasting upon their souls like a raven ripping the meat off of bones with its beak, and we, the beloved ones of the deceased, are left to mourn and weep and sob and moan for their improbable return. Nothing else can be done, and the only things to remember the dead are the memories, the guilt, and a headstone with a name that would soon fade away as time passes, forever forgotten to human mankind. You may think, my dear fellow reader, who I imagine to have at least one close person in your life, what else could be more horrible? Perhaps, the guilt of knowing that the death of your loved one was obliviously preventable?
I am a old, writhed man; a old, writhed man who has done many horrible things; who has stolen, who has cheated and lied, who has tortured and killed his enemies in unimaginable ways; you may think as perturbed, mad even. However, I am a old writhed man who is past his prime. In just a few, short years, I will be one of those whose name will be faded away as time passes. Here I sit, writing what will be my first and last memoir, though I will not be talking about my crimes or my pirating past. In fact, I do not even consider this to be a memoir; I would rather prefer this to be as a acknowledgement--a plea-- to the very person who, for a very short span of sixteen years, had managed to change my life entirely; sometimes, for the better, sometimes for the worse; but overall, managed to surround herself around my finger in ways I would never imagine a child would do. Her name was Abigail, but many knew her by her stage name, "Sakurako", the name given to her by Tomoko, her nurse since she was a child and her geisha instructor since her early adolescence. You see, my Abigail was certainly not the healthiest, nor the quickest, nor the smartest since she was born. My wife, Claretta, and I struggled to raise our daughter, who was dear and precious to us, until Claretta's premature death, and my episodes of amnesia began a few years ago. Despite the many conflicts, I can proudly say that Abigail, though dying at just sixteen a few weeks ago, had a happy and full life. Yet, I feel rueful; conscience-stricken, because knowing that even though she was in poor health and knowing that she was not going to live for a very long time, I feel as though her tragic death is my fault. It was my responsibility to look after her and take care of her, but I did not. I feel, as of right now, a failure at being a father and a disgrace to others for breaking the promise that I had took, the role as caretaker for my frail child. So, here I sit, writing about my sorrows, imagining what would have been if I was at least a little more obliged to my Abigail. Blame me for her untimely death, but the only person who I will allow to find me at fault is Abigail herself.
So, my precious child, blame me. Reproof me for my fault. Blame me Abigail; blame me, Sakurako.
A/N: Short, yes? I promise there'll be more to come the next time I update. Please R&R, if you have the chance.
~Arigato Gozaimas, hellostonesfan