Whispers of the Innocent

8

My mother was the epitome of understanding, never prying into the affairs of men outside the home, always trusting her husband implicitly. The word "murder" seemed too distant from our reality; we never imagined it lurking so close, nor did we ever suspect anything amiss.

In our eyes, my father, John Morrison, was the definition of a good man—cherishing family above all, loving towards his wife and son, and wholeheartedly devoted to our welfare. Yet, the psychological burden he carried grew heavier each day.

I was a bright child, excelling academically, and my father took great pride in me.

But my father's mental strain is reaching a breaking point.

So, as I embarked on a new chapter in my life with the SATs, my father's journey seemed to reach its end.

He confessed everything to me.

Whether the details he shared were entirely true or painted in a light more favorable to him, I couldn't be sure. His revelations shattered my unconditional trust.

Regardless of whether he was provoked or acted in a moment of impulse, he had taken lives.

After a prolonged silence, I regained my composure and urged, "Dad, come over to me."

He stood at the cliff's edge, weeping and shaking his head vehemently, when suddenly the ground beneath him gave way. His eyes widened in terror, arms flailing as he began to fall backward.

My heart skipped a beat as I lunged forward, grabbing him just in time to pull him away from the precipice.

As the rocks and soil tumbled down the cliff, disappearing into the silence below, only the howling mountain wind remained. My father, gasping for air, appeared dazed but unharmed.

I knew he feared death. Though he rationalized ending his life, facing the actual moment proved too daunting.

Holding his hand, I suggested, "This cliff is too high, Dad. Let's walk down a bit and see for ourselves how high it is."

Without resistance, he allowed me to lead him down towards the river valley. The descent was treacherous and unmarked, taking us two hours to reach the valley floor.

Looking up from the base, the cliff we had stood upon loomed high and distant, its peak barely visible through the dense foliage.

I remarked, "It's so high. Falling from there would hurt a lot."

"I had no choice," he replied, his voice tinged with resignation.

As dusk fell, casting a glow across the sky, a chill wind swept through the valley.

It was then I felt an eerie gaze upon us. Searching the surroundings, I spotted a sheep not far off, silently observing us—an impassive spectator to our drama.

A shiver ran down my spine.