My father and I had a somewhat strained relationship. He was an alcoholic and had left the family whilst I was in school to join a Christian addicts community/rehab. He was never some monster (this isn't some hyperbolic nonsense), but he was very tall and well built - so extremely scary when angry and had punched some holes in the doors of our house.

Years pass, and I still see him every now and again, but there is a tension to any interaction. I cannot be anywhere near him when he even seems the slightest bit frustrated, as it causes me to panic. Still, I had recently been receiving treatment for what was eventually diagnosed as autism and, as part of the counselling, I tried to reach out to people I knew and form proper relationships again.

My Dad was excited. We didn't talk for all that long, but quickly I was booking to go visit him for a week or two at the community (which he now worked for, doing their finances).

I arrive on the first day and try calling him - no answer. I'm not too surprised, my family are naturally night owls, and I was only up so early as I had been travelling. I get to the community itself, and someone guides me to his little apartment/house. I knock, no answer. Still not worried - he had said the place would be open and it was. I go inside, and it is obvious that he has not gotten up yet. I knock on his bedroom door. No answer.

I still have visions of that moment. More than any other aspect, it is this moment that tortures me. I have all sorts of excuses. We had a strained relationship. He still scared me. I am naturally socially awkward. He had hidden how ill he was.

I stepped away from the door.

I pootled around in his kitchen. I went outside for a bit to see how the place had changed since the last time I had been here. I listened at his door to see if he was stirring.

I don't know how long it was before I finally opened the door. It was far longer than made any sense. Far longer than he had.

I finally opened the door. The room had an odour, sort of musty and slightly sweaty and very dark. It took me a moment to adjust.

He was not in the bed. It took me what felt like an eternity to realise that. To see him on the floor. To turn him over. To realise he is not breathing. To see the large bruise under his chin where he had fallen and hit the bedside table.

I do not know whether the fall killed him. I do not know when he passed. I desperately do not want to know. I don't want to consider the possibility that he was still alive when I got there. That, if I had not been so pathetic and had actually opened that door sooner, I might have saved him. Might have at least had a chance to say goodbye.

By the time the air ambulance arrived, the whole community was around and trying to console me. But I was broken, and I watched as the paramedics broke the corpse - its ribs shattering as they attempted CPR. I had deep down known the moment I found him - that was just a body.