Shattering

Chapter One - Asa

The sound of gunfire shatters the quiet, echoing through the house like thunder cracking too close. Each shot makes the walls tremble, the floorboards groan beneath heavy footsteps. My parents’ screams cut through the chaos—raw, terrified—burning themselves into my ears.

My older sister and I are crouched together in the closet, pressed into the darkness. I can feel her shaking beside me, her arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders as if she can shield me from what’s happening outside. The air is thick, hard to breathe. Every second feels stretched, fragile, like it might snap.

Through the thin wooden door, I hear voices—low, harsh, unfamiliar. Two masked people are tearing through our home, drawers slamming, glass breaking, boots pounding against the floor. Our home doesn’t feel like a home anymore. It feels like a trap.

I clamp a hand over my mouth to smother my sobs, biting down on my lip until it hurts. My chest aches with the effort to stay quiet. I don’t want them to hear me. I don’t want them to know we’re here.

My sister leans close, her lips brushing my ear as she whispers my name, telling me to stay still, to stay quiet. I nod even though she can’t see me. My heart is beating so loudly I’m sure it will give us away.

Another gunshot rings out, closer this time.
And in that moment, hidden in the dark, I realize nothing will ever be the same again.

The house eventually falls silent.
No more shouting. No more footsteps. Just a hollow quiet that feels wrong, heavier than the noise ever was. My sister and I don’t move at first. We stay frozen in the closet, listening, counting our breaths, waiting for something—anything—to tell us it’s safe.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer.
Slowly, she reaches for the door. It creaks as she pulls it open, the sound slicing through the silence. We step out together, our legs stiff, our bodies trembling as we move down the hallway.

The house is destroyed.
Drawers are ripped open, furniture overturned, glass scattered across the floor like shattered ice. The walls are marked with deep gouges, and the smell of smoke and metal lingers in the air. I call out for my parents, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
No answer.

We follow the hallway toward the living room, every step heavier than the last. My heart sinks before I even see them—like some part of me already knows.

They’re lying on the floor.
My mother’s eyes are open but unfocused, staring at nothing. My father is beside her, his hand still reaching, as if he tried to protect her until the very end. There’s blood—too much blood—and it doesn’t look real. It can’t be real. My mind refuses to understand what I’m seeing.

I drop to my knees, a broken sound tearing from my throat. My sister screams, the noise sharp and raw, echoing through the ruined house. I reach for my parents, shaking them, begging them to wake up, to say something, to prove this isn’t happening.

But they don’t move.
They never do.
Suddenly, my chest tightens. The room begins to blur, the edges of my vision closing in. The sound of my sister crying fades, replaced by a loud, pounding rhythm—
My heartbeat.

I gasp and jolt upright, sucking in air like I’ve been underwater too long. My hands are shaking, my shirt damp with sweat. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The darkness feels too familiar.

Then I realize.

I’m in my bed.

The room is quiet. Safe. Years have passed—but the dream feels just as real as it did that night. I run a hand over my face, trying to steady my breathing, but the images won’t leave. The gunshots. The blood. My parents’ empty eyes.

It was just a dream.

A lie I’ve told myself too many times.
I stare at the ceiling, my heart still racing, knowing one thing for certain—
Some nightmares never really end.

Why does my mind keep dragging me back there? I’ve tried to bury that night a hundred times—locked it away, shoved it into the darkest corner of my thoughts, pretended it no longer exists.

But it never stays gone. It always finds its way back, creeping into my dreams when I least expect it.

It’s been thirteen years since then. Thirteen years since everything I knew was torn apart.

I’m twenty-one now. I should be focused on the present—on the life I’ve built since, on who I’ve become. I shouldn’t still be haunted by the past, especially not by something that happened when I was a kid.

And yet, it clings to me.

Every loud noise makes my chest tighten. Every sudden silence feels like a warning. No matter how far I run, that night follows, stitched into my bones, etched into my memory like it’s still happening.

I tell myself.

I’ve moved on, that I’ve learned how to live with it—but some wounds don’t heal. They just scar over, waiting for the slightest pressure to split open again.

I close my eyes and exhale slowly, trying to calm the racing thoughts, trying to remind myself that I’m safe now.

But my mind doesn’t listen.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and let my feet touch the cold floor. The chill grounds me, pulls me out of my head just enough to breathe. I rub a hand over my face, fingers lingering at my eyes like I can wipe the memories away if I press hard enough.

The room is dim, washed in the pale glow of streetlights leaking through the blinds. Shadows stretch along the walls, too long, too familiar. For a second, my chest tightens again—but I force myself to look around. No broken glass. No blood. No screams. Just my apartment. Just me.

I stand and move toward the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The reflection staring back at me looks older than twenty-one should. Tired eyes. A jaw set too tight. Someone shaped by things he never chose. I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles ache, waiting for the pounding in my chest to slow.

It doesn’t, not really.

Back in my room, my gaze drifts to the window. Somewhere out there, the city hums with life—cars passing, people laughing, the world moving forward without me. I wonder how easy it is for everyone else to sleep. To dream about normal things.

I lie back down, staring at the ceiling, listening to my own breathing. I count each inhale, each exhale, like I was taught all those years ago. In. Out. Slow. Controlled.

The past doesn’t loosen its grip.

Tomorrow, I’ll put the mask back on. I’ll act like I’m fine, like I’m not still trapped in a dark closet with my sister’s arms around me and gunshots echoing through my skull. I’ll keep moving, because stopping means thinking—and thinking means remembering.

And remembering is the one thing I can’t afford to do.