Their house – a two-story suburban in a sea of nice middle-class homes – is dark and quiet as I pull into the driveway. Throwing my legs out of the car to use their strength to lift myself up, I throw a look back and see blood on the seat, dripped down. Shit. I hit the lock button on my keychain, the chirp going off behind me as I zigzag to the front door. Pulling out a credit card and a wire from my pocket, I pick the lock and stumble into the darkness of my parent’s living room, knocking into the table that holds keys and other random things like change and rings; things people ditch when they get home. Their clanging jingles echo in my head like a high-pitched alarm and behind me I hear the familiar sound that no one wants to hear: the safety being released.
“Don’t take another step,” a voice growls, the gun aimed on my back.
I freeze, feeling dizzy, the room spinning. “Dad. It’s Tommy.”
He hesitates. “Tommy! Why the fuck didn’t you use your keys?” He turns on the light. “What if someone saw you, you fuckin’ moron? Oh shit. What’d you go and do?”
My mother’s voice from the top of the stairs behind him, calls down in horror, “Is that blood?”
I look up at her, throw a look out of the slanted corner of my eye. “I got shot, Ma.”
Then I’m on the floor, cloaked in darkness.