"Mark!" Mom called from downstairs, her voice friendly but eager. "Dinner is served! Hurry—before it gets chilly!"
I sighed and shut my computer. "Hold on!"
"Now, Mark!"
I heard my father chuckle from the kitchen. "She won't let you stall forever."
The aroma of roasted chicken with garlic butter filled the house and made my stomach rumble. It felt good—solid and ordinary when the rest of the day had left me on edge. Still, tonight the smell seemed oddly strong, almost as if it were masking something else.
I didn't think much of it and slowly walked down the stairs.
The kitchen glowed with a cozy yellow light. Mom set plates on the table; beads of sweat shone on her forehead. She looked tired but satisfied. My dad sat already, sleeves rolled up, a glass of water in his hand.
"There he is," Dad said. "I figured we'd really have to make you come."
I smiled, a little too pleased with myself. "You wouldn't have been able to," I said.
Mom tapped my shoulder with a towel as I passed. "Sit. Eat. And don't pick at it like last time."
I sat with a hot plate in front of me—chicken golden-brown, mashed potatoes creamy, a mound of broccoli I planned to avoid.
"Please don't make that face at the broccoli," Mom said.
Dad laughed. "He always overreacts. He'll eat eventually."
For a while, things flowed easily. Forks clinked. Dad teased Mom about the slightly overdone garlic bread from last week. Mom asked about my homework, and I complained about a group project that wasn't pulling its weight. They offered advice I probably wouldn't follow but appreciated anyway.
Normal. Perfect.
But it wasn't quite right.
Sometimes the house would creak, the wood settling or a pipe shifting. I told myself the noises were nothing—just the plumbing, the breeze, the house adjusting. Dad always said the same when I was little.
Tonight felt different. The air seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for something. I shifted in my chair and my fork slipped in my hand. Mom frowned.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Yeah. Just… tired."
She reached across the table; her fingers brushed mine. Comforting, steadying. "Have another bite. You'll feel better."
I swallowed and forced myself to eat.
Then it happened.
BANG.
A sharp metallic crack bounced around the house. My fork froze halfway to my mouth.
Dad paused, worried. "What was that?"
Mom squeezed her napkin. "Maybe something fell downstairs?"
Another sound grew louder. BANG. The lamp above the table rattled; its light blinked.
Dad's chair scraped as he stood, pale. His hand trembled. "Stay still," he told me.
The air changed—heavy, suffocating. My stomach turned. The food on my plate suddenly felt wrong.
Mom stood, voice shaking. "Should we call—?"
BANG.
A hallway window spiderwebbed with cracks.
This wasn't the pipes. This wasn't a house settling. It felt like something else entirely.
My body wanted to move, but I was frozen in my chair.
The door burst open.
He stepped inside without hesitation.
A man. Ordinary face. Expressionless. A gun in his hand.
He walked like someone used to breaking in. Mom gasped and stumbled back. Dad moved in front of me, tense and protective.
"What do you want?" Dad demanded, his voice cracking.
The man didn't answer. He simply lifted the gun.
BANG.
Dad's body crumpled before I could understand what had happened. A neat hole between his eyes. Blood stained the wall. His face was frozen in disbelief.
Mom screamed and lunged forward.
BANG. BANG.
The shots tore through the kitchen. Mom staggered, clutching her chest. Blood bloomed across her blouse. She tried to crawl toward me; her hand reached out, trembling. Tears streamed down her face—not from fear, but from the pain and the desperation to reach me.
"Mark…" Her voice broke as she collapsed, face frozen in an expression of love.
I couldn't breathe.
The world tilted. The warm kitchen light looked sickly, revealing only death. The taste of garlic butter turned rancid in my mouth. My fork slid from my hand and clattered to the floor.
The man turned his gaze on me. His eyes were empty—neither cruel nor gleeful—just devoid of anything.
"You should've stayed upstairs," he said, voice flat.
I shook my head, tears burning my eyes. My throat was locked; words wouldn't come.
Helpless. Hopeless. Weak.
Those words repeated like a curse.
He raised the gun.
"It'll be quick."
BANG.
The world went dark.
And I felt pathetic.