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My Fault My heart hurt.
The pain emanating from it Was sharp, sudden, and ruthless Similar to the way it felt When I got the message from Quarantine 1609.
The one that said:
"We regret to inform you that Patient #0270876, also known as Misha Vida, has breathed her last. Our condolences and may you, her surviving relative, live on."
The message telling me Of my mother, Who had "breathed her last" As they called it.
Yes, this was a similar sort of pain But still not the same.
Because it wasn't My fault That my mother had gotten sick.
But it was My fault That you had gotten angry with me.
I hadn't seen you Or heard from you For four days straight, And I was a mess because of it.
I came to the park every single day And sat under that tree on the bench For hours on end, Waiting for you to show up So I could apologize to you.
I had offended you. I shouldn't have blamed the government Over their risky scientific investigations And their lousy precautions And their ridiculous scientists Who couldn't keep their own experiments Under control.
I shouldn't have, But I did.
I should have thought before I spoke, Because if I had, I wouldn't have offended you. And I would have known that Your father Was one of those "ridiculous scientists"
