Ben looked at his son and felt regret.
It wasn't a new feeling to him, he would dare say it's one of the most consistent things in his life. Ever-present. He'd learned to live with it.
Always, it was directed towards himself, and oftentimes it was about something he did to somebody else. A friend, a classmate, a stranger, a family member...
Feeling it towards a child, his own son, no less, was an entirely different experience.
This wasn't somebody who he met in a classroom. This wasn't a person he'd come to know at reunions. This wasn't somebody who he formed a close bond with.
This is somebody he made. This is somebody he was directly responsible for.
For his existence. For his wellfare.
This child depended on him for basically everything, and what did he have to offer?
Half-baked advice. Cynicism. Cluelessness on how to parent a mentally ill child when he himself had the exact same illnesses.
He created a person and gave them endless suffering.
The regret wasn't because of anything his son did, it was because of what his son had to go through.
His child was five years old now. Five years of playing with him, teaching him, feeding and bathing him; and yet the regret never went away.
At the very least, it was stagnant, consistent.
Then he found his son sobbing his eyes out in his room, one of the kitchen knives laying on the floor in front of him; and then, a blur. Panic, heavy breathing, a daze, his head fuzzy as he carried his son all the way up to their room, as he called his wife, as everything fell apart at the seams and he was too helpless to stop it.
Ben made a futile attempt at trying to calm his breathing.
(No, not helpless. He had every opportunity to stop this. This is all his fault.)
Shut up.
His vision ceased to blur as he focused on his son, who lay curled up on his chest, his breathing now slow with the occasional sniffle, his small form trembling. He was quiet and said nothing, but the stains on his cheeks held obvious remnants of tears and his eyes held a thousand-yard gaze no five year old should ever have to have in the first place.
(And yet here he was.)
Ben let himself lean against the wall and pull the blankets over his son when he saw him shiver, caressing his head when he closed in further.
Another sniffle- then a whine.
He looked down, to see staring up at him from the floor was the family pet, his son's pet, his best friend. The small dog's tail patted on the floor with an anxious rhythm, his dark eyes wide and blinking.
He whined again and tried to reach up to his owner. His son sobbed.
Ben only closed his eyes and leaned his head back.
(Five years old.
Aiden didn't deserve this.)