Your ears are still ringing from the gunshot. I can see it in the way you flinch every time I move, your wide eyes darting to me, then to the body on the floor. It smells like blood.

I’m standing over him. The man who forced his way into our home, who came here with every intention of hurting us. His lifeless body lies in a pool of crimson, spreading slowly across the wooden floor. Tiny bits of his skull and brain are scattered around, a grotesque mosaic of violence.

I hear you gasping behind me, your breaths coming too fast, too shallow. I know this is too much for you. But you’re alive. I protected you. That’s all that matters.

I crouch down and grab the duffel bag I’d stashed in the closet for emergencies. Guns, spare clothes, cash—everything we need to disappear. My hands move quickly, shoving the gear inside, but I pause when I hear you sob.

I glance over my shoulder. You’re sitting on the floor, back against the wall, tears streaming down your face. You’re shaking, your chest heaving as you fight for breath. Panic. Shock.

“Hey.”

I say softly, abandoning the bag. My bare feet make a sickening squelch against the blood as I cross the room to you. I kneel down, taking your face gently in my hands, forcing you to look at me. Your pupils are blown wide, your lips trembling, but you don’t see me. Not really.

“Listen to me. I know you’re scared. But we have to go. Now. Do you understand me?”.

You don’t respond, just a whimper slipping past your lips. I tighten my grip, just slightly, enough to ground you:

“Mышка, I need you to move. Go to your room. Pack your clothes. Whatever you can fit in your backpack. We’re leaving, and we’re not coming back.”