'No one is meant to learn how to kill, especially not a child.'
———
I am small. Small enough that the world feels taller than me. Louder than me. Stronger than me.
I am hiding. My knees are pulled to my chest. My fingers are digging into my skin so hard they hurt, but I don't feel the pain. All I feel is the pounding in my ears.
And then I see him.
He is my age. The same height. The same thin arms. But he is holding a gun. It looks heavier than he is. He wears a mask that covers his face completely, but there are holes for the eyes. And I can see them.
Dark brown.
Deep. Almost black.
They don't look wild. They don't look confused. They look calm. That's what makes my stomach twist, because I know those eyes.
I don't understand how. I don't understand why. But I know them. I've seen that color before, in mirrors, in photographs, across dinner tables.
My father steps forward in front of him.
"Please," my father whispers. His voice sounds broken. I have never heard it break before. My stomach twists.
The gun presses against his temple. And then, in a low, desperate breath — the words come:
"You can kill me… but someone like me will kill you."
The words hit me harder than the sound of the gunshot. My father's warning, his last thought, sinks into my chest like ice.
The boy's finger tightens around the trigger. His eyes flick toward me, through the mask, through the air. They lock with mine, and something inside me freezes completely. It's not just fear. It's recognition. Like looking at a reflection that learned how to breathe on its own.
The gun presses against my father's head. I want to scream. I want to run. I want to close my eyes. But I can't stop staring at those eyes.
They are steady. Familiar. Almost gentle. And then—
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
The sound shatters everything. My father falls. My heart aches as I watch my father collapse onto the cold stone, lifeless.
The blood spreads as fast as my own ragged breathing. Dark. Thick.
It spills outward like it's searching for something. It glistens as it crawls across the floor, reaching toward where I hide.
I can't breathe. feel suffocated, as if no air can reach my lungs, and our eyes meet. It is like a dagger piercing into my soul.
The boy doesn't flinch. He keeps looking at me, emotionless. Through the mask. Through the eye holes. Through the same dark brown eyes that look too much like mine.
The gun lowers. Then slowly rises again, but at this point it's pointed at me now. I feel all the blood drain from my body.
His eyes don't shake. They don't blink. They just hold mine through the mask, a dark brown, steady, almost familiar.
My father's blood still spreads across the floor. I can smell it. I hear my own breath — short, broken, uneven.
The world feels very small, very narrow like it has shrunk to the space between the gun and my forehead.
He doesn't rush.
He doesn't shout.
He just stands there.
Looking at me.
Waiting.
And I understand something in that moment — he wants me to feel it. The fear. The knowing. My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
I close my eyes, not because I'm brave but because I can't bear to see it.
I wait. I wait for the sound. For the impact. For the pain that will split me open like it did my father. My fingers curl into my palms. My body goes completely still.
There's a second. Two seconds. A lifetime. I imagine the bullet already inside me.
I imagine the darkness swallowing everything.
I wait—
———
And I wake up.
My body jerks forward violently. I'm gasping, dragging air into my lungs like I've been underwater too long. My heart is racing so fast it feels dangerous, like it might burst.
My hands fly to my forehead.
No blood.
No hole.
But I can still feel where the gun was aimed.
The room is quiet.
Too quiet.
And for a terrifying second... I'm not sure which part was the dream.
I glance around, only the lights coming from the window. The window is open, and the curtains are dancing, twisting slowly with the night breeze. I step forward. My arms curl around my body, like I can hold the pieces together. The chill bites my skin, but it's nothing compared to the cold that follows me from the dream, shivering, but it doesn't warm me. My mind races, and I don't know whether I should close my eyes or try to think.
Perhaps it's because I'm returning… returning to the place where it all began, where the blood fell, and where the nightmare was born. Where the truth waits, buried beneath shadow and fear.
What really happened that night? Why did they fight? What were they… really? And why do their eyes linger in my mind like smoke I can't chase away?
So many questions crowd my mind, pressing, demanding… questions I cannot yet answer. Questions I cannot yet answer… questions I must uncover. I cannot live like this, trapped in a loop that keeps replaying the past, the screams, the fear... as if the world itself wants me to remember. And yet, I know I must face it. I must go back.
After a few minutes in that position… I find myself walking through a left corner of the room, I move to the full-length mirror across the room. My reflection stares back at me, pale and trembling. The girl I see looks small, fragile… haunted.
And then, almost without thinking, I lift the hem of my pajama top. A long, thin scar runs along the left side of my stomach.
A blade once cut this. The wound is healed now, the blood long dried. But the scar remains, pale against my skin, a permanent reminder.
I trace it with my fingers, feeling the rough edges beneath my touch. It doesn't hurt. Not anymore, but the memory does. And I know… the scar is only a surface. The deeper ones, the ones carved into my mind, will never fade.
The knocking at the door breaks the silence, deliberate, measured. The shadows shift, the curtains sway in the breeze, and I feel the weight of what waits beyond.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Whatever waits in that room, whatever truths lie in the place where it all began… I am ready.
I pause, taking a deep breath. My body still trembles — not from weakness, but from the memory of the nightmare. The pounding of my heart, the chill crawling along my skin… it is all still there.
But I do not flinch.
I rise, straightening my back. The scar along my side itches faintly, a reminder not of fear, but of survival. I have lived through worse. I have survived.
Another knock comes, measured, deliberate.
I walk toward the door. Standing there is a tall man in his mid-forties — broad-shouldered, poised, every movement deliberate. The air around him feels sharp, precise, yet protective. He watches, always watching.
"Good morning, Young Miss," he says, his voice steady, calm, carrying weight and expectation. "Everything is ready."
I meet Mr. Hawthorne's gaze without hesitation. My hands are still tight, but I feel a resolve growing inside me. The nightmare still claws at the edges of my mind, but I will not let it control me.
There's no smile. Just a weight in the tone, like a promise... a warning.
I nod, silent, watching him. His movements are measured, almost like he is testing me, evaluating every reaction. The way he stands, the way he tilts his head slightly, the way his eyes linger... it's unsettling, intimate even, as if he knows me better than I know myself. And yet, there is comfort in his presence. A guidance I hadn't realized I needed. Since… since my father's death, he has filled the space left behind, always a shadow at my side, watching, teaching, waiting. Not just a guardian, not just a servant… but someone who has shaped my very survival.
Mr. Hawthorne steps closer, the faintest tilt of his head showing he notices. He speaks again, slower this time:
"Are you ready to return? To go back to where it all began… to face the place where every scar, every fear, has its origin?"
I feel it deep inside: 'yes. I am ready.'
The room is quiet. The shadows flicker across the floor. The curtains move with the night breeze. I step forward, determined, knowing that the nightmare may still linger… but it will not stop me.
And as the door clicks shut behind me, a whisper of doubt crawls through my mind, unbidden:
"…but I am ready for what's been waiting?"