Dead Beat (❌)

Chapter Five

Anneliese

Fresh blood is something so foreign to me, that I don't know what scares me more, the sight of blood or the fact that it's my mother's blood both speckled across my face and now soaking into my brothers' carpet, the same carpet we had wrestled on just a few days ago.

This house is my home, my safe place, my sanctuary, and it's now my mother's grave.

I can't feel anything as I stare down at her corpse with eyes so wide I'm expecting them to pop out, each of my limbs numb and complete ice. I can't even think straight, finding it hard to process what is now reality.

Mom is dead. She's dead. She's really dead.

The force of the bullet sent her sprawling backwards onto her back, her long dark locks fanning out around her. The flesh of her forehead is gruesomely swollen outwards, resembling a mini volcano, like the one we made together so long ago.

I can even recall her soothing voice directing us to mix the baking soda inside, all of us gasping in surprise when it really did explode like the ones on television, but unlike the volcano, no movie or TV show could prepare me for this.

I slowly lift a trembling hand to my mouth, muffling a whimpered cry as I let myself fall to the carpet, immediately crawling backwards until my back hits the boys' dresser on the opposite side of the room.

Still unable to process what my next move should be, my gaze slowly lifts to see Alfie just as frozen as I was a few seconds ago with an expression of pure horror on his face. His scarlet eyes are wide, his mouth is hanging open, and tears are freely spilling down his cheeks.

My lips open to call out to him, but only another weak whimper slips out instead, my chest tightening and my heart aching with grief.

Mom is dead.

I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to just wake up from this nightmare, but all I can do is stare back down at her, her face blank, but still beautiful.

Her eyes are half closed, and she honestly looks like she's sleeping, but the streams of blood that leak down the bridge of her nose like bloody tears are hard to miss. I even lock onto her chest to see if I can catch even the smallest of movements, but nothing happens.

Mom really is dead.

Pulling my knees to my chest, I remain pressed against the twins' dresser drawers, not caring that the drawer handles are digging into my back, and helplessly try to accept what I've lost.

The silence around us is almost as painful as the crime scene we are forced to endure, but that is soon broken by the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

My eyes lift towards my brother who stands just inside the doorway, and my brain screams at me to hide, but another part of me softly tells me to just stay, to accept my fate.

The cold sensation in my limbs then spreads to my mind, making me feel sudden fatigue and despair.

My mom...
My mom isn't here anymore. She can't help me, she can't protect us.

She's dead.

Just as tears finally spill down my own cheeks, I watch as Dad appears around the corner and halts in his tracks.