The past always has a way of sneaking up on you. No matter how hard you try to keep it off your mind – to leave it all behind – somehow it always finds its way back. It follows your every step, gnawing at your heel. It has been a year since my son's death, also around the same time the nightmare started. I live and relive the moment of the accident that claimed the life of my son over and over again every single night.
Every time I fell into a deep slumber, I could see him, crying in agony. I could see it in his eyes that his life had been slowly fading away. He mustered all the energy he had left to hold my hand until he finally fell limply in my arms. His eyes were still open yet they saw nothing, just frozen in place. These past few weeks though, the nightmare has gotten worse. It became more vivid. I could even still taste the blood in my mouth when I woke up.
After a while, I've gotten used to it, it becomes one with me. The nightmare usually started with me holding the lifeless body of my son in the middle of a crowded street. I could feel dozens of sets of eyes fixed on us. Whispering to one another, wondering what just happened. The red car that ran over our motorcycle was driven by a middle-aged woman. She was in a state of shock, crying hysterically while the police tried to calm her down. I closed my eyes, trying to fight back the tears, when I opened them again he was gone. I scanned the area around me and it was empty. No crowd prying crowds, no police, no ambulance, nothing. There was just me kneeling on an empty street, the red car and my wrecked motorcycle were gone. The only trace of the accident remains was a spot of blood on the street, marking the place where my son hit his temple when he fell off. Then I saw him again, standing tall a few inches away from me. He was still battered and bloodied, and yet somehow was able to stand on his own two feet. He was smiling.
He called out me to me, held up his arms as if he wanted me to pick him up. I tried to run towards him, I wanted to hold him... To save him.
But I couldn't.
I couldn't move my feet, I couldn't reach him. His smile began to fade and turned into a scowl. But it wasn't the adorable scowl my son always had. Anger painted all over his face. His injured bloodshot eyes fixated on me, he's not even blinking. I cried out his name, I kept trying to reach him, but my feet planted firmly on the ground. That's usually where the dream had ended. Every morning I woke up with cold sweat covering my entire body.
But last night, for the first time since the streak of nightmare began to haunt my every sleep, I could hear him speak to me.
"Pa, I'm lonely,"
That was the first word he said. The pain I felt was like a stab to the heart, it made me feel guilty. I wasn't able to protect him.
"Please come with me," He added. His words pleaded yet his voice fell flat. I wanted to make up to him, I'd do anything for a chance to be with him again. I wanted to say yes but hesitation hit me as I was about to give my answer. I was wondering what would happen to me if at that moment I took his hand and decided to come with him to wherever he's going. I'd probably be dead in my sleep and no one would realize it until my corpses bloated and the stench attracted enough attention.
"Pa, don't you miss me?" I kept my mouth sealed.