I wish my daughter hadn’t survived the accident

My little girl was 6 years old when this happened. It was a non-preventable tragedy, but I can’t help but blame myself. I was her protector. The one person in the world who was supposed to keep her safe.

I’d lost control of the car. I swear it was like the wheel developed a mind of its own, and the next thing I knew, we were barreling towards a tree at 60 miles per hour.

I broke an arm and had to get some spinal surgery, but my daughter… she got the worst of it.

Her head connected with the dashboard, and even through the chaos of the crash, I could still hear the sickening sound of her nose and teeth breaking before things went dark.

I wasn’t even concerned with my own injuries. Physical therapy felt like a burden that took me away from my daughter’s side. She spent weeks in the hospital. Nobody thought she’d survive, but against all odds, my little trooper pulled through.

It was a miracle.

It left the doctors baffled.

She survived with minimal brain damage.

With the impact from the accident, she’d have been lucky to end up in a wheelchair. But she somehow recovered completely.

That’s the thing, though.

I don’t think she’s all here anymore.

Ever since she got discharged, she’s been acting… off.

She doesn’t eat anymore. I have to force her to even take nibbles of her food, and she fights tooth and nail the entire time.

She uses the bathroom on herself. At first, I thought they were accidents, but she just keeps doing it. It’s like she’s doing it on purpose.

She can talk and walk just fine, but it’s like there’s a part of her brain that’s just… broken, I guess.

The thing that worries me the most is that she doesn’t seem to sleep much anymore, either.

I’ll try and put her to bed, and she’ll throw the biggest fits I’ve ever seen. It scares me, honestly.

She sounds possessed. Demonic, almost.

I’ll try my best to put my foot down, but she’s relentless. It’s exhausting.

I always end up just letting her have her way. It’s easier to let her tire herself out than it is to argue with her. But she doesn’t tire herself out. She doesn’t even stay in bed.

She just stands in my doorway every night. Staring at me while I lay in bed.

When I ask what she’s doing, she just ignores me.

The only thing she says is:

“You killed me.”

“You killed me.”

“You killed me.”

It’s beyond unsettling.

But it never felt unsafe.

That is until last night.

She was back in the doorway. Staring at me with those cold, callous eyes. Performing her chant.

Only now…

She held a kitchen knife tightly at her chest.

She looked like she was contemplating.

Debating on what to do next.

After a few moments of debate, she charged me, screaming at the top of her lungs.

She poked me a few times, but I managed to subdue her. She screeched the entire time. Kicking and flailing while coming too close for comfort with that knife before I could pry it out of her hand.

We’re both back at the hospital right now.

The entire drive here she just kept repeating herself like a broken record.

“I hate you.”

“You killed me.”

“I hate you.”

“You killed me.”

We’ve been here for hours, and the doctors just brought me her scan results.

She’s completely fine. No abnormalities whatsoever.

I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong.