Despite the TV portraying only black and white, all I could see were shades of red.
The worst part about your mind running a thousand miles an hour is you get to watch something like this, something so horrific, in perfectly clear slow motion.
I watched my family die twice, first in the shadow-sight, then again for real.
The man stood back, behind and to the side, revolver raised. My parents and sister were kneeling, gagged, beaten. Because of me.
I didn’t want to watch but couldn’t tear my eyes away from the screen.
The hammer on the revolver cocked back and slammed forward. The barrel kicked back just after the bullet exited in a shower of sparks and flame. It seemed to take forever to travel the few feet required.
I was a prisoner of the moment. My fists were clenched, my entire body was frozen. I was the strongest of us, the fastest, the quickest thinking. The most powerless.
I had had the most to lose. And I had lost.
Bang.
My father fell.
Muffled screams from my sister and mother. I could see their eyes. Tears ran down my mother’s face. Terror was written plain on Ema’s face.
Their captor moved his hand in a slow arc.
Holly had come up right behind me. Her hand moved up to her mouth, eyes wide. Even she was moving in slow motion.
I wanted to scream, fight, cry.
I would kill him.
Bang.
My mother lay next to my father. Together again.
No. Please. I fell to my knees.
My sister’s head dropped low. I could no longer see her face.
Bang.
I closed my eyes, finally free from the screen’s spell. But another sound brought me back.
The man moved forward, stepping over them as if they were nothing but an inconvenience. He said nothing. He was dressed in black and wearing a balaclava. The only sounds were my ragged breaths, pounding heart, and the rustle as he reached forward. The screen went blank.
He had said nothing, showed no features, left no reason or explanation.
I had been useless. Powerless. Helpless. And now I was utterly alone in this world.
I felt a hand on my shoulder.
Holly.
I stood up, turned, and walked wordlessly from the room. She followed.
I moved past the destruction we had wrought on my family home, past the bodies of those who had opposed us, crumpled on the floor. They had not suffered enough.
I walked down the hall I had run through so many times as a child. Down the stairs, gripping the banister I used to slide down, ignoring my mother’s protests. Through the living room I would never watch a game in again. Past the kitchen that would no longer serve meals for my family and me. Through the entry way and out the front door, still barely hanging on a single hinge.
Out of the house I had known all my life, now empty of all that had made it a home.
I looked back for a moment, took a deep breath, and pressed on.
I knew they would burn it to the ground. Use whatever influence they had to make the police turn a blind eye to the obvious arson. Maybe a short news story about the silent killer lurking in all the homes—gas lines not up to code or whatever.
Who knew? I didn’t care.
I wanted no part of it.