I remember the smell, thick and suffocating, hanging in the air like a fog. It was blood, fresh and raw, with that unmistakable metallic tang—a smell that settled into my bones, souring my stomach. Back then, it was horrifying; all I could think of was the color, that deep red against torn flesh, and how wrong it all felt. Now? Now, the stench would only bring me a twisted satisfaction. The me of today, hollowed out and bloodthirsty, would savor every drop. But that boy—he was still innocent, untouched by what was to come.
Funny, thinking back on it now, how I was the one trying to comfort her. I, barely thirteen, standing at 5’6”, arms wrapped around her, this grown woman with wide, terrified eyes towering over me at 6’2”. It was almost laughable. She was the one who’d seen so much, who’d faced the world in a way I hadn’t yet. But there I was, holding her as though my small frame could somehow shield her from the horror of her brother being hurt. Some days, I miss its simplicity, the purity of not knowing, and the belief that somehow, I could make things better.
By the time my parents made it back, they’d managed to free the guy and bandaged him up with the quick precision that came from years of patching wounds and dealing with emergencies. My mother had this small stash of medical supplies she always kept around, mostly for scrapes and cuts but enough to handle a crisis. My father had grabbed something from his workbench—chemicals, harsh and sterile, the kind doctors use to clean wounds. It was... what was it called? The name slips away now, buried under the years and the rot that fills my mind. Back then, though, it was simply the thing that would save a life, the small vial of liquid that might keep his blood from turning to poison.
Looking back, it’s almost surreal. That small act of kindness, the way they tended to his wounds, saved him, bound our fates to this place and this day. And while they did that, while they tried to stitch one life back together, the rest of our world was falling apart. I was too busy with comforting words and my naive sense of security to realize it, to see the cracks forming right under my feet.
Once we’d calmed down, the panic of those few moments easing, we helped the woman ease her brother into the passenger seat. She adjusted his seat, pushed it back as far as it would go, and tilted it until he could sit with only a faint grimace instead of a scream. My mother called the woman’s phone, staying on the line with her to guide her through the journey to the hospital, her voice gentle and reassuring even as her own worry crept through.
Finally, there was a pause, a sense of rest settling in—at least for a moment. My mother stayed on the call, her soft murmurs filling the quiet. We were tired, but relieved, thinking this would be the worst of it, that soon we’d be on our way. But then, nearly forty minutes into the drive, the tone on the other end shifted.
The woman had stopped, her voice suddenly frantic. She spoke of cars blocking the road, and people standing around them, indifferent to her honking horn. A thud and groan sounded in the background as her brother shifted, pain rippling through him as the car jerked to a stop. My mother spoke faster now, urging her to remain calm, telling her to try talking to the people outside.
And then, out of nowhere—a gunshot. A crack so sudden and sharp it cut through the phone’s static like a whip, followed by silence. A thick, sickening silence that held for what felt like an eternity. And then came the brother’s voice, raw with pain and fury, shouting something unintelligible but full of rage and terror, his curses and threats lashing out as though he could fight back. Another bang. And then—nothing. Silence. Not even a gasp or a moan. Just nothing.
We froze, not daring to breathe. My mother’s hand was clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide, a look of horror I’d never seen on her face. And then came a new voice, one that cut through the silence, deep and chillingly composed, as if this was all routine. “Sergeant, no civilians left in the car. Just the two. Only took two shots. What do you want me to do with the vehicle?”
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There was a garbled reply over a radio—distorted, words broken by static, but my blood ran cold at the calmness in the shooter's tone.
The soldier spoke again, his tone sharp. “Sir, the phone’s still live. Someone heard it all. Nick, track this call.” His voice was casual as if tracking down the last link to the dead was just another task in his day.
A jolt of fear shot through us. My father snatched the phone from my mother, crushing it underfoot. He pulled out his phone, dialing a number I couldn’t make out as he spoke in a tense, low voice. Then, he turned to us, his face pale but determined. “Grab food, water, anything you can carry. We’re leaving now.”
I scrambled into my room, my mind spinning. I dumped out my backpack, my heart pounding as I shoved in anything I could grab—food from the pantry, bottles of water, my school things scattered uselessly on the floor. It was all surreal, a nightmare of sounds and shadows I couldn’t wake from, my hands numb with shock as I stuffed whatever would fit into my bag.
By the time we all reached the car, Dad’s face was as pale as I’d ever seen, a tightness to his jaw that told me he was afraid but determined. He threw his rifle bag into the trunk, eyes darting down the road before climbing in beside us. He started the engine without a word, and we took off, the tires screeching as he rounded the corner toward the town’s small strip of shops, leaving a pair of dark tire marks in our wake.
None of us spoke as he flung his phone out the window, the device bouncing and shattering along the pavement. The silence hung heavy in the air, thick with questions none of us dared ask. It was only when he turned the car around, retracing our path back through town, that we found our voices.
“Dad,” I asked, my voice small, barely audible over the hum of the engine, “what’s going on? Why are we going back?”
He didn’t look at me, his eyes fixed on the road. “I’m making tracks,” he said, his voice a rough whisper. “They’ll follow the path I left, I think we’re heading south. It’ll buy us enough time to slip out unnoticed.”
The words hung in the air, and my stomach twisted as I realized the depth of what he was saying. He led them away from us, laying a trail so convincing that they wouldn’t suspect we’d doubled back.
Mom’s hand shook as she clutched mine, her fingers cold and tense. The truth was settling in: we weren’t returning home. We weren’t going back to anything we’d known. Every turn, every skid on the pavement was designed to buy us time, to give us the slimmest chance to escape whatever hell had overtaken our quiet town.
I looked out the window, the familiar streets blurring past, feeling a hollowness form in my chest. This place, this life, all of it was being left behind, burning up in the flames of that single, sickening gunshot.
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The memories from that day—they don’t burn like they used to. The edges feel blurred now, dulled like an old wound scarred over too many times. I know it’s a bad sign. I need those memories, raw and bleeding. I need to keep the terror, the rage, fresh like it was that night. If I lose that, I might end up losing my drive. Lately, it feels like I’m watching it all through frosted glass, with screams and panic coming to me like faint echoes. It terrifies me. I can’t afford to let that pain slip through my fingers. Without it, what am I? Just a shell of rage, a husk of something once human, hollowed out by hatred. I tell myself over and over, I won’t let that happen. I won’t let the pain grow soft. I can’t.
Because that pain—that terrible, searing grief—is all that’s left of them. The people I loved, the family that filled those quiet days in that small town. That's the only reason I have to keep going. I know that every second it slips away, I’m losing what little of them I still have, bit by agonizing bit.
So I claw at those memories, digging in, forcing myself to relive every scream, every drop of blood. I press the horrors against my mind, as though the pain itself will keep me from losing them forever. Even if it tears what’s left of me apart, it’s worth it never to let that day fade.