"Grief is not as heavy as guilt, but it takes more away from you."
-Veronica Roth
A dull buzzing cut the heavy fabric of his slumber.
Preston Northwest opened his eyes and cursed the blinding sunlight. Everything ached. He pushed himself up from the bed, only to crash back down. The sound of clanking glass bottles could be heard as he groped ineffectively at the sheets.
Groaning, he sat up again. As he looked around, the haze slowly cleared and he realized he wasn't in his bedroom.
It was his daughter's.
He threw himself down onto the bed again and loudly sobbed. His eyes stung with the pressure of a river run dry.
Why did she have to die? She was only thirteen, for God's sake! Not even thirteen, not for another month! He was going to get her another pony for her birthday! Why did she have to die?
Fatigue evened his breaths, and he shut his eyes, trying to remember . . .
That old man spray-painting a circle on the ground . . .
"Do it, sweetie! Do the one thing no one in our family's ever done. Touch the hillbilly . . . "
They all started glowing, and everyone ran out . . .
God, why did he have to run? Why didn't he stay and protect her? He didn't know what exactly had killed her, but if it was that triangular hellspawn . . .
But it couldn't have been, could it? He'd turned the town into a living nightmare, and everything changed back to normal before they found them. So they must have defeated him. So what the devil had killed them?
He remembered the unnatural blue glow . . . could that have had something to do with it? That circle was apparently an ancient prophecy, and those sorts of things tended to require some kind of sacrifice . . .
But if that was the case, why would they have gone through with it? Why would she have gone through with it? Surely there must have been another way to stop that monster, one that wouldn't have cost them their lives! Had he taught her nothing about self-preservation?
Unless, of course . . .
He shot up from the bed. "No . . . she wouldn't . . . why would she? She had a great life! I gave her a great life! I gave her everything she wanted! I was a good father . . . "
Pangs of doubt rang at the back of his mind. He tried to shake off the feeling.
"I was a good father . . . I am a good father . . . I AM a good father . . . !"
A jingling sound in his suit pocket broke his concentration. He reached in, but wished he hadn't as his hand went cold at the sensation of metal. Slowly, he opened his hand to reveal a small brass bell.
"Pacifica Elise Northwest! Stop this instant! We have a reputation to uphold!"
His ears began to ring. "No . . . no!"
"Our family name is broken!"
"You dare to disobey us?"
The ringing grew more intense . . .
"Dingally-dingally! Is this bell broken?"
Something snapped, and his blood went from running cold to boiling. He rose from the bed with a yell and thrust the bell to the ground. He stomped on it again and again, until it was nothing more than a clump of dented metal.
After several minutes, his ragged breathing steadied, only to become erratic once more as he fell back onto the bed and buried his face in his hands.
She was dead. And it was probably his fault. And even if it wasn't, it might as well have been. And there was nothing he could do about it.
"Preston, dear! Come down to breakfast!"
He looked up at the ceiling and sniffed. He didn't want to get up. He didn't feel like getting up. He wasn't even hungry. But he couldn't very well stay in the dark in Pacifica's room all day, could he? Slowly, he pushed himself up from the bed with a groan and trudged to the bathroom to wash his face.
With a deep breath, he went out to face the world again.
