Random Quick Writes (RQW)

Legacy and Lead

You're buried in a manuscript—drowning in ink, in ideas, in the ceaseless hum of your own thoughts. The walls of your office feel tighter than they did a month ago, back when you first closed the door and declared war on the blinking cursor. You haven't left since. Meals slid under the door like offerings to a reclusive god. Conversations ignored. Notifications silenced. Family calls unanswered. All in service of the story.

Draft after draft piled up like bones from an invisible war. Whole chapters were flung aside in creative fury. Red ink soaked through page after page like blood. Still, you endured. You wrote until your knuckles stiffened and your spine curled into a question mark. Until your eyes stung from the screen's backlight and your vision blurred with every blink. But at last—finally—it's here.

The idea. The story.

Buried beneath the rubble of failed openings and hollow endings, it had been waiting. For a while, you were sure you'd lost it—just another false start, another graveyard of dead words. But this one lived. It exhaled. You felt it breathe as the final sentence locked into place, like the last chord of a long-forgotten song.

You drop your pen. The sound echoes, sharp and final. You lean back, stretching until your spine protests, every muscle pulling tight from disuse. The pain is real—but it feels like proof. You laugh. Quiet. Disbelieving. You did it.

You stumble to your feet, body creaking in protest. The room is a mess—towers of notebooks teetering on every surface, pages scattered like fallen leaves. You cross to the high shelf above your desk and retrieve the old camera. Black-bodied, worn smooth with time. The one your grandfather used to commemorate every finished manuscript. A tradition passed down: proof of effort, of creativity, of legacy. A photo to capture the birth of an idea.

You loop the strap around your shoulder and bring the camera to your face. Finger poised above the shutter.

Then—you freeze.

The doorknob rattles.

Your office door never rattles.

A closed door is sacred. House rule. It means focus. Silence. Do not disturb.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

Then—bang.

A gunshot.

Loud. Close. Final.

The camera drops from your hands, crashing to the floor. The lens shatters on impact. You're already at the door. Something thuds against the other side—a body. Then a dragging noise. And then—screaming.

Thin, high, terrified.

Blood seeps under the door.

You fumble the lock, fingers slick with panic, and yank it open.

A stranger slumps in the doorway. Young. Dressed in dark clothes. Blood pours from his side, pooling around your feet. His face is distorted in pain, but wrong in another way—off, like a wax figure. Behind him stands your daughter. Your youngest. Just eleven. Wearing pajama pants with cartoon dogs and a shirt two sizes too big.

She holds the pistol in both hands like it weighs the world. Her arms shake. Her eyes—wild with terror—lock on yours.

"D-Daddy!" she cries, the gun falling from her fingers. "I—I did what you said! What am I gonna do?! What do I do?!"

You move without thinking. You ease the pistol away. It's still warm. Then you pull her into your arms. She collapses against your chest, sobbing in violent, shuddering waves. You hold her. Rock her. Say nothing. Words are useless now.

Her cries echo through the house—louder than the gunshot.

The manuscript sits behind you, forgotten.

But this is the story now.

Minutes pass. Then—sirens.

Red and blue lights flash through the windows. Officers step through the door, boots heavy against the wood. Paramedics rush in—too late. Your daughter is led gently away, wrapped in a blanket, clinging to Ms. Ruth—your elderly neighbor—who showed up like a guardian spirit.

Ms. Ruth kneels beside her, soft hands rubbing circles on her back. She helped raise your kids after your wife died. She taught your son to make scrambled eggs. She sat with your eldest during her first heartbreak. And now, once again, she holds the broken pieces of your family together.

Your other two children arrive, breathless. They'd been down the street at the community center. Your son stops short, eyes wide at the blood. "I heard something," he stammers. "It sounded like..."

His words trail off.

A news van pulls up. A reporter approaches with a phone camera already recording. An officer stops her, firm but professional, waving her back toward the street.

You still haven't said a word.

Later, the truth emerges.

The man—barely more than a boy—wasn't a stranger. He was a classmate. A stalker. He'd sent your daughter messages. Violated restraining orders. Threatened her. She'd done everything right. You all had.

But he came back anyway.

With a new name. A new face. Post-surgery, post-accident. He changed his hair. Changed his voice. Broke in through the back door while you were in your office, celebrating your creative triumph. He dragged her down the hall. She screamed. She fought. She remembered what you told her: If you're in danger, protect yourself. Only shoot if you have no choice.

One shot. Center mass.

The investigation moved quickly. Under Texas's Castle Doctrine, her actions were legal. No charges would be filed.

But legality doesn't quiet a haunted house.

Your youngest refused to sleep alone. She stayed in the den, curled beside her sister or Ms. Ruth. The kitchen grew quiet. Game nights stopped. Everyone tread gently, speaking in lowered voices.

You returned to your office once. The broken camera stared back at you. You turned around and shut the door.

You never gave interviews. Never explained what happened. Not to the press. Not to friends. Not even to your children. You signed what you had to. Sat through what you must. But you never spoke of the hallway, or the blood, or the scream.

One week later, she came to your door.

"Can I have it?" she whispered.

You looked up from your desk.

"The camera?"

She nodded. Her voice was small.

You passed it to her without a word.

She took it gently, cradling it in both hands. She didn't ask about the cracked lens. She just slung it over her shoulder, like you'd done so many times before, and disappeared down the hallway. The door clicked shut behind her.

You stood there, alone in the threshold, listening to the quiet.

Some legacies are written in ink.

Others, in blood.

She would carry both.