Page 2 of Ricochet

My lungs are tight, refusing to draw breath. But I still smell it—a sickly sweet, coppery scent that lingers in the thick air.

It freezes me in my tracks on the bottom step.

The lights in the kitchen are off, but the orange glow of the streetlight outside the house shines through the window on the opposite wall. It catches on something wet that pools on the floor, a glittering puddle. Stars shimmering in a black hole. There’s more black beside it. A figure, a silhouetted, still form lying crumpled on the dirty tiles. This one doesn’t reflect the light. It’s just pure black. A void.

Gravity and curiosity pull me in as I take the last step down, then another step forward.

After one more, I come to a stop with my bare feet inches from the dark, glistening pool of blood. It grows, spreading slowly, reaching for my toes. The body from which it still seeps from lies mangled and motionless. Lifeless.

The entire right side of his head is caved in, a gaping hole where he was obviously struck. I can see brain and bone. Flaps of skin and sinew hang off in bloody ribbons, the remnants of his right eye barely clinging from the attached muscle and nerves. The other eye is open, its chestnut brown iris swimming in red.

There’s no way he was hit only once. There’s no way I didn’t block out more noises of his struggle.

All the damage makes it difficult to identify the body.

But not impossible.

My stepdad is dead.

The truly terrifying part?

I don’t recognize whatever this feeling is that’s swelling inside me. What I do know is it’s probably not what Ishouldbe feeling. There’s no fear, no grief or anguish. There’s no adrenaline pumping through my veins. No flight or fight response.

There’s only…calm.

Like I’ve been living my life in a raging sea in the middle of a storm, violent waves crashing over me, drowning, drowning, drowning.

Now the waters are still.

And I’m floating.

Before the growing puddle of blood can reach the tip of my toes, I take a few hurried steps back. One step, two, three. Then I spin around and rush for the stairs. My feet thunder on the steps as I take them two at a time, no longer feeling the dire need to remain quiet.

In my room, I rummage through my school bag in the dark, searching by touch alone, not bothering to turn on the lights. Once I find what I’m looking for, I run back downstairs.

Again, I stop on the bottom step, clutching the sketchbook against my chest as I stare down at the lifeless, broken, bloodybody. Slowly, I lower myself until my ass is resting on one of the steps.

I don’t know how long I sit there and just…stare.

The thoughts in my own head scare me more than the fact that I’m sharing a space with the corpse of the only father figure I’ve ever known. That I’m breathing the same air that’s touched death.

It’s not until I finally pull my gaze away that I notice the state of the back door on the other side of the kitchen. The glass pane is shattered, most likely the source of what woke me. I was so preoccupied with the blood and the body that I hadn’t seen the glass shards littering the floor.

Resting my sketchbook on my lap, I open it and flip to a blank page. My charcoal pencil scratches against the paper as I immediately start to draw.

There’s not much light. Only the glow of the streetlamp provides any illumination as I work.

It doesn’t matter though. My eyes have long since adjusted to the darkness. Way before tonight.

My pencil moves furiously across the page as I draw, peering up every now and then to make sure I’m getting the scene right. My hair falls into my eyes, and I flip it away. Black smudges form along the side of my palm.

I don’t consider myself an artist, but I’ve become decent at sketching over the years. It’s not about skill. It’s about the way my mind hones in on what I’m doing, focusing only on the image, the lines and the details, the feel of charcoal on paper.

It’s an escape.

That’s what it’s always been. A way to shut off my mind and shut out all the outside forces that have twisted it into the haunted, tormented wasteland it exists as now.

Right now, it’s a diversion from what I can’t understand.

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