THE MISTAKE IS YOURS
Author's note — Hi, I really hope you like it. I based it on emotions, and I also had some inspirations. I did some research to help me with this writing, and I'm thinking of making a series just to overcome writer's block.
Summary: there's no going back, no forgiveness, it's just reality.
Warnings: Anguish — sadness
Requests? — This isn't a request, I only did this to get the idea out of my head.
Please do not copy my blog!!
Music
There was a house at the end of the street, where the wind beat against the windows as if asking for forgiveness.
The curtains learned to dance on their own, because no one called them by name anymore.
Days didn't dawn there, they only returned weary.
The clock, forgotten on the table, no longer marked hours, it marked absences.
The flowers in the yard bowed slowly, not out of humility, but for lack of eyes to see them.
And the ground—ah, the ground— held footsteps that never returned.
There was a cup, always cold, that awaited a coffee that never came.
The steam that once rose from it remained trapped in the air, in the form of a memory.
The mirror still reflected someone, but not clearly: it seemed more like a whisper of a face, an echo of someone who was once whole.
And at night, when the wind entered through the crack, they spoke to the walls— telling stories of those who forgot to listen.
The walls, patient, respond with the same silence they learn to love.
Sometimes the sky wept, but not even the rain dared to wet that place.
Perhaps out of respect.
Perhaps out of fear of waking what sleeps in abandonment.
Time, disguised as dust, covered the furniture, like someone trying to hide pain with an old sheet.
And each particle that landed brought a little more forgetfulness, a little less return.
A bird landed one morning on the window.
It looked inside.
It sang—softly.
But no one heard.
Then it left.
And the house, in its slow breathing, remained standing, pretending it was still a home.
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It's all silence, a tense air.
Sometimes, the same eyes observe the window with so much emotion, and yet, so much silence.
Sometimes, we think about how nothing makes sense anymore.
Looking at the same place has become a loop…it's become the same.
Different clothes, different age, different shoes, and yet…
It's all the same. .
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Why?
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Why do you look at the same place like that? .
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Oh.
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I understand now, you don't look the same way, but you feel the same emotion, sadness consumes you, as if it could devour you from the inside, all at once.
Because you know, you heard, every scream, the screams of despair, and yet, you never helped, you were silent, every desperate scream was silence, like a breath, like the wind, like the shadows that move as if they were alive in your room.
Those cries for help were silent, and even though you saw the signs, you ignored them.
He looked and couldn't look anymore.
Because you saw yourself, projected your mistakes onto a person who, in the end, wasn't guilty.
Do you regret it?
Did you like what you did?
Ignoring the person as if they never existed, as if that child hadn't shed tears just to get their father's attention.
Do you regret that?
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His grey-blue eyes observed the polished, meticulously cared-for stone; each color surrounding that loss felt like something piercing deep into his chest.
Each flower was a stab, a silent despair, as if eyes were staring at him, watching him, pointing out every mistake he made, because he made many mistakes.
He was a hero to many, and yet…
He will never be the hero of those who begged, of those who innocently gazed upon what they most admired; he will never be a hero to his own child…
He could hear a noise, a sigh, something that escaped as silently as the place where he was, like the despair of his heart that broke and was crushed to dust, a sigh that escaped his lips as a sign of despair.
And in the end, ??? they will never return.
He felt his own nails piercing the skin of his palm.
Like a reminder that it is real, it will never end, his suffering will be eternal, just like the neglect of…
He could no longer cry, he couldn't even look at his own mistakes without considering himself a coward; he had no more tears, but it was already ingrained in him, a bad father. .
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So… .
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Do you regret it? .
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Bruce Wayne .
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A drop of cold air met his blue-gray eyes, which stared almost as if he couldn't look away, even with more and more raindrops hitting the earth.
The smell of wet earth was subtle, his black shoes wet, his hair wet; he was wet and yet, he didn't move, he couldn't, it was as if he were trapped.
His eyes were fixed on the stone, the flowers being watered, the rain falling, the sky dark as if in mourning, a mourning that will never end, as if pointing to a memory that will echo eternally.
His eyes observed the grave; he felt his own blood seep from his palm and trickle down his fingers from the force with which his nails pressed against his skin.
And the only thing he heard was that same voice, not the child he hadn't even looked at, not the children, not the parents, not someone disappointed.
He listened to his own voice, his own voice, like an endless question.
What did you gain by ignoring and neglecting your own child?
Nothing.
In the end…
You only lost again…
And now…
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Your child is dead. .
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How will you fix your mistakes now?
There's no waiting until later.
There's no one left to wait for you.
There's no one left to wait for your attention.
Because in the end,
The fault is yours and you know it.
Accept it.
Your child will never come back, Bruce.
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His eyes narrowed, he felt something roar inside him, and in the end, it was just hatred consuming him, for losing someone again, for being a failure again.
For never having been there, he said so many times that he would make time that now he doesn't have any left.
Now there's nothing left.
Now he can't even stop reading his child's name on that cursed stone where his sorrows will reside, where his child lies beneath the surface, where his child's last thoughts were that he never received the attention he deserved, that he never earned anything, that their father never gave them the attention a child should receive.
His eyes observed the same name on that tombstone, as if that tombstone were mocking him again, as if pointing out the mistake he made again.
The mistake of ignoring his own child.
The mistake of neglecting his family.
And in the end, he will never make up for that mistake.
Because his child died.
There is no forgiveness, no obsession, no way to lock his child in a room or simply bring his child back, no salvation, no way to simply go to their apartment and apologize, because they will never have an apartment, because that child never grew up.
There's no way to apologize for every mistake and say you'll improve; that doesn't exist.
There's no going back, that's the reality, Bruce. .
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Your child is dead, and nothing will change that…
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Hello again, I hope you enjoyed it. I just wanted to put the idea out there, a reality, an unhappy ending, without powers, because this is the real world, no turning back, just a reader, without any personality, only the reader.
PLEASE TAKE CARE
