We get home late, the sky sending the world into a dark monochrome. I like the midnight sky, a black satin quilt embroidered with white speckles pulled over the land. But instead of keeping you warm, this quilt could very well freeze you in the height of summer. The silver moon shines down on us, lighting up the streets and setting the edges of our clothes on fire–glowing white. 

My mom steals the keys from my dad's fumbling hands, allowing us into the safe warmth. 

"I had it!" My dad pouts, reining in his joyous giggles. 

"Inside." My mom orders, pointing a finger into the welcoming darkness. It's for the sake of my mother's sanity that alcohol is banned inside the house. 

I'm happy to stay out of this and out of the way. I follow them inside, quickly tackling the stairs and collapsing on my bed. 

With my arms sprawled out against my duvet, my own slice of the midnight sky, I battle against heavy eyelids. Despite being six years older than me, my brother was still running around like a toddler on their first sugar high when we left. I'd love to know how he does it, because damn. Half a day of school is enough to burn me out for the week. Probably why I'm not doing so well there. 

I kick my shoes off with my toes, arms too heavy. Everything's too heavy, the darkness consuming my vision is, too.

I stir, uncomfortable. It takes many minutes to gather my sight, to make out that I'm not in bed; just slung across it. In my suit and–socks. I stare down at cotton white feet with a sleepy glare. No wonder I was so uncomfortable, who wears socks to bed? God I hate socks.

I quickly slip them off, pulling my bedsheets back when soft footsteps from the hall alert me. I freeze, black duvet in hand, listening.

Listening for what? To figure out which of my parents went to the bathroom? I should shrug it off, but…I'm uneasy. 

Is that why I woke up? To someone, or something in the house. Okay, that's absurd. I've been listening to too many horror stories. 

I try to resume tucking myself into bed but I can't shake this feeling. Nausea prickling my lungs and sinking to my gut. It makes the hair on my arms rise, eyes pulled wide. The more I listen, the worse this feeling gets. 

The steps are too slow, too soft. Why aren't they back in their room yet?

The fear pierces my heart completely when I hear a door creak open, the sound temporarily discouraging whoever it is. They pause, before the door creaks once more. That is not the sound of my parents returning from a midnight walk, and my brother isn't in. He wouldn't come back. Would he? 

Shit. 

What do I do?

First, breathe. You're useless if you pass out.

I pull myself up, trying to be as quiet as I can on my way to the door. I hold my ear over the crack hoping to catch the tiniest of shuffles. But–nothing. 

The beats in my pulse shake my whole hand as I lift it to the doorknob, skin touching ice. On three, open it. There'll be no one there. Or maybe you'll wake up, find yourself in bed still–without socks. 

A shrill yell crashes through the air, a panicked cry from my parents room. It injects adrenaline into my veins, kick starting my limbs into ripping my door open. But my feet don't move. I can see my parents room, the door open a crack. Inside, my mother's petrified face is lit by the pale moon. 

For an odd moment, taking in the softness of the light, I'm calm. She looks like an ancient painting, fearful but glazed from the heavens and painted with calculated, feathery strokes. But that moment ends as quickly as it started, sending a shooting pain throughout my body. 

I don't know what's happening, yet there's only one thing in my mind. My dad's gun. Being quiet is a shy afterthought as I burst into my dad's study, riffling through the drawers until I come across the dark metal. It's a lot heavier than I remember it being, carrying the weight of my family's lives in its cold barrels.

I thank the universe for my natural speed as I race down the corridor, pushing the door to my horrified parents open all the way. Hiding behind it's wooden blanket is a figure dressed in black, only a braid of delicate grey hair seeping out. They have a knife pulled to my dad, his hands bound by thick zip ties. My mom is tied in a similar way, to the post of their bed.

The intruder barely has time to turn around when I fire the first shot, into their shoulder. The sound rings out, clinging to my ears as painful cries. When the intruder catches themselves on their heel, they pull an arm back, knife in hand. A second wave of panic floods through me as my mom screams, louder and more painful than the first. 

The adrenaline that pumped through me the first scream hits the intruder this time. They jump forward like the crack of lightning, grey eyes wide but set in a fierce focus. Their whole expression would be enough to startle me to the core if I weren't already far beyond that. 

My hands are trembling, fingers ache with their aggressive grip on my weapon. My eyes hardly have enough time to see the movements as the intruder lunges forward. One hand reaches for the gun and the other baring the silver tooth, ready to plunge it through my skin. 

I fire a second time.

The bullet catches on their finger but doesn't stop there. Tearing it to shreds, the drop of metal hits the intruder–would-be murder's–chest along with their finger. The blood begins to pour before– thud.

I don't move. Eyes fixed on the wall behind. The screams of my mother fade away, replaced by the rapid beats of my heart and a ringing in my ears. 

Everything feels heavy again. Too heavy. The gun falls from my hands, bright red droplets spraying the air upon impact. They stain my white trousers. Red. 

The lapels my new sister had just pressed hours ago, stained red. 

The skin of my pale fingertips, stained red. 

Bright, sparkling, warm. Like a ruby caught in a ray of sun. 

I just killed someone.