Prologue
I’m in the right position to tell you reality has a sound.
A dull shrilling sound that pierces into the eardrums, finds its way through the vortex of the eyes, narrows to the mind’s eye and snaps you out of the blur that keeps you hung on stupidity, snatching you from floating in your world, until your eyes feel like they might drop from their sockets.
All of this happens in a second. Your brain jolts. Your hands tremble on their own. Goosebumps climb your skin.
Your knees buckle as you try to step away from the gruesome visuals in front of you, but they’re too powerful to let you escape.
Some realities never let you abandon the truth; they hold you in a chokehold until your back is against the wall, in a corner of a dark, grand house.
Blood coats my hands, smeared across my pajamas and I feel utterly trapped in the chaos I’ve unleashed.
I find myself seated on the floor, banging the back of my head against plaster until it bleeds yet I’m too numb to feel it.
At this point, my head is in locomotion, swinging left and right; every attempt at denial meets eyes pouring rivers—swollen and red from pain.
My glands go hyper, sweat beads at my hairline and drops straight from my auburn hair in quick, cold taps.
All I hear are incoherent whispers of guilt, needles poking at my heart, squeezing the breath from my lungs until I clutch my chest just to claim a little control.
“Murderer,” a hiss at my ear.
“Cold. Heartless.”
“You’ll rot in jail.”
“You’ll never escape from this.”
My hands press hard against my ears, desperate to shut out the screaming inside my skull until my elbows shake.
Nails dig into my scalp, dragging through the knots, pulling at roots as if I could claw out the voices burrowing into every thought and nerve.
I grab fistfuls of my auburn hair, twisting, yanking, and tearing, trying to make the pain match the chaos inside me.
Each pull sparks a flare of blood at my fingertips, and still the whispers mock at me. The last shred of sanity whispers, and my mouth works against my palms.
“It was a mistake,” I whisper into my own skin. “I’m not evil. I wasn’t thinking.”
I drop to my knees, crawling on fours toward the top landing of the staircase, despite the fear coiling in my chest, as if to face the monster I’ve unleashed but at the sight a ragged scream tears from my throat, bouncing off the banister and coming back as echo.
There’s…blood at the base, a slick shine licking the first riser, creeping toward the runner.
The sight jerks me backward. I pivot, shove off the wall, and run for the bedroom where I meet the genesis of the horror.
The room is dark save for the stub of candle guttering on the dresser, flame bowing and flaring, throwing broken light that makes the room stutter.
Rain needles the windows, wind worrying the frames, and thunder rolls heavily through the bones of the house until the candle’s flame shivers.
The air smells like copper and wet dust. Lightning pops and slaps the room white, then drops it back into black, and the switch from nothing to everything makes my stomach flip.
The gun is where it fell, a metal winking in the low light.
A pool spreads fast from the body beside it, finding the seams in the boards.
My breath hitches, my pulse slamming in my ears.
I can’t move. I can’t think.
All I can do is watch the chaos I’ve unleashed, trapped in a world that feels like it’s collapsing around me.
Can I ever make this right?
I lunge for the nightstand, snatch my phone to call for help but it slides, bangs the lamp, then skitters to the floor.
I drop to my knees, grab it, smear the screen with a red thumb. 9-1-1. Call.
A click, then a woman’s voice, calm and close. “911. What’s your emergency?”
The operator’s voice pierces through, asking me to speak, over and over, but my throat clogs. I can’t answer—just sobbing, shivering as the phone rattles against my teeth.
“I can hear you,” she says. “I’m not hanging up. I’m tracing your call. Stay with me. Breathe in… and out. Can you talk to me?”
Another sob tears loose. I press the heel of my hand to my mouth. The copper taste won’t leave.
The pool on the floor keeps spreading; the stairwell crouches at the edge of my vision.
“You’re doing fine,” she says, soft as a hand on my back. “I’m right here. You’re not alone. When you can, tell me what’s happening.”
“Blood,” I gasp. “Everywhere.” I swallow hard. “He’s… he’s dead.” The word scrapes. “It happened so fast.”
“Okay. The cops are on their way. Stay where you are. Keep breathing. I’ve got you.”
Somewhere far off, the thin wail of sirens blares and swells into a howl as it pulls closer.
Blue-red washes over the ceiling, crawling through the blinds. Tires hiss to a stop. Doors slam. Radios crackle. Boots take the porch in heavy thuds.
A hard fist hammers the front door; the glass rattles in its frame.
“Police! Open up!”
“They’re at your door,” the operator says in my ear, calm and close. “Can you open it?”
Flashes of the staircase sitting between me and the entry, makes me shake my head frantically.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “The staircase. I can’t.”
“Okay. Stay where you are. Keep your hands where they can see them. They’re going to force the door.”
Another bang. Wood flexes. The chain sings against the frame.
I press my shoulders to the wall, lift my hands, and hold my breath as the house braces.
