My childhood.....
When I was younger, I could remember everything from the age of four to now, every detail burned into my mind because of how horrific my childhood was. Before you ask—no, my parents weren't bad people. They never hurt me. But I can still remember the screams.
Every night, I have nightmares about what happened that day.
But I guess a vague description like that doesn't help much, does it? If I want you to understand, I have to start there—of all places.
My parents' deaths were, well… no accident.
But I'll get to that in a second. First, you need to know who I am. You need to understand my life before everything fell apart.
My name is David Rodriguez Lopez. My friends used to call me Davy.
I grew up in a quiet suburban neighborhood, in a beautiful two-story house with a basement—the last house on the block. In my opinion, it was the most beautiful house in the neighborhood, and I guess my parents thought so too. They bought it when my mom was six months pregnant with me, a fresh start for our growing family in a small town in Kansas.
The house was perfect. In the summer, the lawn was lush and green, and the baby blue paint made it look like something straight out of a picture book. It had three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and plenty of space for what my parents paid. But enough about the house.
My mom was a stay-at-home mom, but not by choice. In 2003, when I was about two years old, she was in a car accident that left her unable to move as freely as she once had. Finding work was difficult in our small town, especially jobs that allowed her to sit most of the time, so she stayed home with me.
After the accident, my dad spared no expense to make sure she could move around the house with ease. He installed a stair lift, railings along the walls—anything she might need to stay independent.
My dad was a car dealership manager, but more than that, he was a great man. Family always came first, no matter what. When my mom had her accident, he dropped everything to be by her side. He didn't leave the hospital unless he had to, and when he did, it was only to take care of me. I think he even lost two big sales because of it, but he never once complained.
I loved my parents.
And yet…
Fuck.
It's all my fault.
I guess I should just tell you what happened.
It was July 9, 2005. I was home with my mom. She was in the kitchen making my favorite—grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup.
When she finished cooking, she called my name.
I didn't answer.
Looking back, I should have gone to her. Maybe if I had, things would have turned out differently. Maybe I could have stopped what happened next.