Past Return

Elliot sat in the dimly lit room, his head resting in his hands as he stared blankly at the floor. The ticking of the clock on the wall felt like a hammer against his skull, each second dragging him deeper into the void that had become his life. The memory of that night played in an endless loop in his mind—every word, every movement, every devastating choice replaying over and over. No matter how many times he relived it, nothing could change what he had done.

It had been a small argument at first—like so many others. Elliot and his brother, Caleb, had always been close growing up, but as they got older, life began pulling them in different directions. Caleb was steady, reliable, always the responsible one. Elliot, on the other hand, had been chasing something he couldn’t name, bouncing from one thing to the next, never quite settling. Caleb was always there to offer advice, but to Elliot, it felt like criticism, like judgment.

That night, it had all come to a head.

Elliot had come home drunk after another failed attempt to pitch his latest business idea. His frustration was simmering beneath the surface, and when Caleb tried to talk to him—just a simple conversation—something snapped.

“I don’t need your help,” Elliot had spat, his words slurred with alcohol and anger. “You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?”

Caleb had tried to calm him down, but every word out of his mouth felt like a challenge. The tension in the room thickened as Elliot’s temper flared. He could barely remember what Caleb had said that finally sent him over the edge, but in that moment, nothing mattered except the red-hot rage coursing through him. His hands had balled into fists, and without thinking, without even registering what he was doing, he’d swung.

The crack of his knuckles against Caleb’s jaw still echoed in Elliot’s ears. He remembered the look of shock on Caleb’s face as he staggered backward, losing his balance, falling hard against the edge of the coffee table. The sound of his skull hitting the corner of the table had silenced everything. The rage that had filled Elliot’s chest evaporated in an instant, replaced by a sickening dread.

He had rushed to Caleb’s side, shaking him, screaming his name, but his brother didn’t respond. Blood seeped from the back of Caleb’s head, staining the carpet beneath him.

Elliot had called 911, his hands trembling, barely able to hold the phone. The paramedics arrived quickly, but not quickly enough. They did everything they could, but Caleb had never woken up.

That was three months ago. Caleb was gone, and Elliot had been living in a haze ever since. He had lost his brother in the most violent, senseless way imaginable, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Elliot hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since that night. He hadn’t seen any of his friends, hadn’t left his apartment unless absolutely necessary. He had gone to Caleb’s funeral, standing at the back of the room, unable to bear the looks of pity and horror from his family. His parents hadn’t spoken to him since. Not that he blamed them. He could barely look at himself in the mirror.

The guilt was a constant weight on his chest, suffocating him, pressing down on him until he could hardly breathe. He would give anything—anything—to take back that moment, that split second when he had let his anger get the best of him. But there was no taking it back. Caleb was dead, and no amount of regret, no amount of wishing could change that.

Tonight, though, Elliot was tired of the guilt. He needed… something. He needed to find a way to face what he had done, or else he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going.

There was one place he hadn’t been since the accident—Caleb’s house. The place where it had all happened. Elliot had avoided it like a plague, unable to face the scene of his greatest failure. But something inside him told him that if he ever wanted to find even a shred of peace, he had to go back. He had to confront the ghost of what he had done.

The house was dark when he arrived, the porch light off, the windows shadowed. It looked exactly as it had that night, and for a moment, Elliot hesitated. But he couldn’t turn back now.

He unlocked the door with the spare key and stepped inside. The smell of Caleb’s cologne still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the scent of dust and disuse. The living room looked the same—the couch, the coffee table, the place where Caleb had fallen.

Elliot stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the spot where his brother had died. He swallowed hard, his throat tight. Slowly, he walked over to the couch and sat down, the weight of the moment crushing him. His hands rested on his knees as he stared at the floor.

“I’m sorry, Caleb,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I don’t know how to live with this. I don’t know how to… how to fix it. But I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

The silence in the house was deafening. There was no response, no comforting presence, just the empty quiet that had been his companion for months. Tears blurred his vision, but he didn’t wipe them away. He just let them fall.

“I wish you were here,” he continued. “I wish I could take it back. I’d give anything to take it back.”

But there was no taking it back. That was the hardest part—knowing that his mistake was final, permanent. The brother he had loved, the brother who had always been there for him, was gone, and Elliot was the reason why.

For hours, he sat there, in the silence of the house, seeking forgiveness he knew he didn’t deserve. Forgiveness that would never come. But maybe, just maybe, if he could learn to forgive himself, he could start to live again.

But that day still felt far away.