"She isn't your daughter. Ours died…seven years ago."
In a grim room, filled with wooden furniture. A thick layer of smoke wrapped it. The rich walnut coffee table was filled with cigarette butts and half-empty bottles of alcohol. Ashton leaned back on the armchair staring at the pristine white ceiling. His hands took the half-burnt cigar out of his mouth, letting out a puff of smoke. The smoke slowly made a layer between him and the ceiling.
"Ours died…seven years ago." Those words continued to repeat in his mind. He was the murderer of his daughter. Thinking the killer was him, made him hate himself. He was nothing but a monster, Ashton grabbed the half-empty bottle crashing to the ground.
The glass bottle shattered into a thousand pieces, spilling the gold transparent liquid all over the wooden floor. The piercing pain that had no outlet. Ashton scoffed at his stupidity, venting anger on that object took none of his pain. He was the cause of it.
