The Silence Billionaire

Chapter 2: F.E.A.R

Those shadows approached desperately to destroy him. Angry and vengeful. Francis held onto his chest to assist himself breath properly but all he could hear was his own inner voice screaming.

“Mom,I never meant to kill you. I only wanted to protect you “.

It’s been twenty years since I killed my mom.

I know it was an accident. Everyone tells me that.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“You didn’t know.”

“You were just trying to protect her.”

But none of that changes the fact that she’s gone.

Because of me.

Francis never thought fear could move faster than sound. He could feel himself grasping for breath.

“It's okay, nothing is here. Breath…..breath …. slowly, slowly, yes, you're doing great” said Sharon while trying to calm Francis down from getting a fear attack.

Francis was too scared to be questioned.

A billionaire who is being haunted by a mysterious past—he hides his pain behind wealth, control, and isolation. His thoughts became his prison. He almost died because of his personal fear. The fear of unforgiveness, regret, grudge and anger haunted him even more.

The night it happened, Francis was sixteen-years-old. The power was out. Thunder cracked over their little house like a cruel god laughing, and Francis could hear his mother arguing with someone in the kitchen—someone who wasn't supposed to be there.

He had woken up to the sound of her scream.

Heart pounding, he grabbed the metal bat from under his bed and sprinted toward the noise. His only thought: Protect her.

The kitchen was nearly pitch black. Shadows danced wildly from the flashes of lightning. All he saw was a tall figure lunging toward her.

So he swung.

Hard.

I didn’t see his face. Just a tall shadow coming at her. So I swung. And when the lights flickered back on for a split second...

The intruder collapsed instantly—and the silence that followed was too thick. Too long.

Then lightning lit the room again.

The man on the floor was already gone.

And so was his mother—kneeling beside him, hands pressed to a bleeding chest. She turned to Francis, eyes wide not with fear, but with sorrow.

“Francis…” she whispered, voice trembling, “It was your uncle... he came to help... I thought it was... someone else...”

I saw Uncle John on the floor. I saw Mom drop to her knees, blood spilling through her shirt like ink in water. And then she looked at me.

Blood filled her mouth. Her knees buckled. She fell toward him—and he caught her, screaming her name into the darkness.

I keep replaying that look in my head. Not angry. Not even scared. Just… sad. Like she knew I’d never forgive myself.

She tried to say something before she went still. I don’t know what it was. Maybe “I love you.” Maybe “It’s okay.”

I'm no hero, because heroes don’t kill the people they love.

It hurts a lot.

That was twenty years ago.

Now thirty-six, Francis doesn’t speak much. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t play. His room remains untouched, the bat still leaning against the wall, rusted and wrapped in a cloth no one dares open.

He visits her grave every Sunday. Not to pray. Not to heal.

Just to punish himself.

Because every time he closes his eyes, he sees her face. Not in anger. Not even in pain.

But in forgiveness.

And somehow, that hurts the most.

I haven’t touched the bat since that night. It still leans against the corner of my room, wrapped in the towel I used to wipe her blood off. Some nights, I swear I hear her voice. Calling me. Not in anger. Just... calling.

I could breathe freely now,Sharon held me tightly as if she wasn't ready to let me go.

“I'm fine, you're going to kill me for real, Francis smiled”. Sharon felt a little relief.

And so he lived, halfway. Not free, not jailed. A ghost among the living.

The fear wasn’t of punishment. It was of himself.

She looked at me.

I keep replaying that look in my head. Not angry. Not even scared. Just… sad. Like she knew I’d never forgive myself.

She tried to say something before she went still. I don’t know what it was. Maybe “I love you.” Maybe “It’s okay.”

But I’ll never know.

days later

I had a dream

If it was even a dream. It felt more like falling into memory—only it wasn’t real. Not exactly.

I was back in the kitchen. Not the night it happened—different. The lights were on. The radio was playing some old song Mom used to hum while she cooked. Everything felt warm.

She stood at the stove, her back to me, like she’d never left. Like she was just… there.

I tried to speak, but no words came out. My throat felt like it was full of stones. So I walked toward her instead, one step at a time. The bat was in my hand again—heavy, like it always is in my dreams.

I wanted to drop it, to scream, to run away, but I couldn’t.

She turned around.

Her eyes met mine. No fear. No pain. Just… calm.

“Why are you still holding that?” she asked.

I looked down. The bat was gone. My hands were covered in blood.

“I didn’t mean to,” I whispered. “I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

She stepped closer and touched my cheek like she used to when I had a fever. Her hand was warm.

“I know,” she said.

Then the room went cold. Everything started shaking, and her image flickered like a dying lightbulb. I tried to hold on to her, but my arms went through her like smoke.

Before she vanished, she said one last thing:

You’re the one who has to forgive you now.”

I woke up shaking. Covered in sweat. My pillow soaked.

I don’t know if that was her—my mind’s way of giving me peace—or just guilt trying to make itself look like mercy. But I wrote her words down. Over and over. I don’t know if I believe them yet. Not fully.

But maybe… maybe one day I will.

I tried harder

To forgive myself,to gain inner peace.

Just when I least expected it, I encountered a stranger.