My pulse thrums in my ears, and my skin feels too tight, crawling with unease. Weed sways like crimson dancers, concealing what I inevitably must confront. I don’t fully understand my compulsion, only that I need to relive the scene where it all happened.
A memory hits me, punching me so hard in the gut, I fall to my knees, an agonizing headache splitting my head in two.
Apprehension thrums through my veins as I head past the withered train tracks, slithering their way far ahead and into the woods beyond. They’re abandoned, close to the three story building where I used to live.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I take another step, turningas I spot the house emerging before my eyes. It’s as if every cell in my body screams at me to run as far away from here as possible, the desperation to get away crawling under my skin like flesh-eating insects.
My muscles tighten with each step, resisting the urge to move closer, but I push through it, swallowing the nausea welling up.
I have to do this.
Ineedto do this.
They’ve forsaken us too many times.
Shifting uneasily, I glance down at my phone, its screen lit up with a message from my dad—the fatherly figure that he is. The same dad who hasn’t reached out in months, not since we were once again thrown into foster care.
I clench my fists, breathing through my nose, yet it does nothing to soothe me. Being thrown out at nine and abandoned at the threshold of an orphanage left its scars. When we thought we’d finally found stability away from our parent’s turmoil, they dragged us back to their home, only to discard us again. Repeatedly.
For the past two weeks, Cody and I have been living on the streets. Our so-called parents got us thrown out of the orphanage and forced us to stay with them. We escaped, of course, but I had to leave my car behind. It’s been rotting away in their yard, denying us shelter from the hardened, chilly street.
Glancing at the manor, the trees whistle in the breeze, yet something feels off. I check my phone again, hands slightly trembling. Maybe I regret coming here after all.
“Cody is here. Please come back. I’m sorry for everything.”
That manipulative bastard.
I bite down on my tongue to keep from screaming. The fear of abandonment has always haunted me. My parents didnothing to ease that worry—they only made it worse. I should want nothing to do with them, yet the moment they apologize, I come crawling back like a wounded little puppy, forever seeking the approval of his bastard father.
I hate myself for it. I wish I could tear that sense of longing for family from my chest. Up until now, it’s only ever been me and my brother.
Taking another step toward the house, a sense of unease washes over me again. It’s unnervingly quiet, unusually still for midday, especially in a house that’s always bustling with activity. Bile rises in my throat as hesitation taints every step.
And then, I see it.
The first thing I lay eyes on is my car with its black paint scratched on the side from all the times I’ve crashed into things. Both for fun, and while drunk driving. I never got a driver’s license, but no one here pays any mind to the civilians.
Birds squawk in the distance, a crow cawing somewhere—a bad omen coming closer as I approach the massive building. The doors of my car stand wide open, and a heavy feeling settles in my gut, not ready to confront whatever is going on.
Is that why my dad texted me? Has he fucked up my car, my only safety in a world that failed me?
Then I see the blood, smeared upon the grass as if it were freshly spilled. My heart beats erratically, and I choke back the rising wave of dread. Dark streaks of blood stand stark against the green grass, leading right up to the car, its windows speckled with the crimson liquid.
The unmistakable metallic smell wafts through the air, mingling with the damp earth. Everything is eerily still—too still, and it only amplifies the horror rooting itself deep inside me. I glance down, noticing red droplets now dusting my white, albeit dirty, shoes, stained from the dark, glistening grass. That is not even the worst of it. What’s worse is my dad’sphone, the screen cracked into pieces, lying amidst a pool of blood under the open car door.
A hand hangs limp outside the open door, connected to a body slumped in the front seat by the wheel. I don’t react; I merely run toward the car with my heart in my throat, fearing the absolute worst. I already understand what I’m going to see.
A whimper I did not think I could utter tears its way from my hoarse throat, and I stare into the vacant eyes of my father, lifeless and unseeing. Those cold eyes are staring at me, but now it’s not because of contempt—there are no emotions left in him, just the emptiness of death. I force my gaze to shift to the female figure beside him. My mother is equally lifeless, face once twisted with bitterness toward the two sons she despised now frozen in stillness.
It’s too much blood; I think I might puke.
“G-Grey,” a voice stutters from behind me, and I whip around.
“What have you done?” I scream at him, not knowing what I feel—sadness, relief?
They’re dead—it’s over, and they won’t hurt me anymore.
I should’ve been the one to kill them for all they did to us.
