For the New Yorker: "I’m going to walk to the bridge. If one person smiles at me on the way, I will not jump." Story here.
One day, a man and woman had a bad argument. The man got so angry that he killed his wife. He immediately regretted what he had done as the two had children together, but he didn’t want to be caught. He eventually decided to bury his wife’s body under the living room floor.
Days went by, and he never told his kids what had really happened. He hated himself for it. He thought his children must be sensing his distress because they looked up at him far more often than they used to. Sometimes they would stare and stare at him, seemingly without reason. It didn’t seem weird to him, though. After all, their mother was gone.
One day, he snapped. He couldn’t keep the secret anymore.
“Hey kids,” he started. “I have something really important I need to talk about with you…”
“Huh?” his son’s eyes widened. “Really? What’s it about? We have to tell you something, too.”
“Oh? Would you like to speak first?” He was quite perplexed.
“Well, Daddy,” his little girl looked up towards him. “It’s kind of weird, but…”
The two children looked above his head as they finished speaking together.
“Why have you been giving Mommy a piggy back ride for so long?”
Inspired by a tragic story I read in the news about two small children who accidentally trapped themselves in a hope chest and suffocated. For the upcoming creepythread zine curated by Jensine Eckwall and Peter Schmidt.
THE NEW YORKER | NOBODY’S SON:
"I lost my father this past year, and the word feels right because I keep looking for him. As if he was misplaced. As if he could just turn up, like a sock or a set of keys." Essay by Mark Slouka, Art Direction by Jordan Awan.
For Reader’s Digest about a stranger who helped two young girls and their horses from a car wreck. Thanks Marti Golon for the rich assignment!