I remember that morning like it was yesterday. Which is funny, because everything after that feels like a blur.
I woke up to the smell of nothing. Usually, Elena would be banging pans around, humming something under her breath while she made eggs or pancakes. She had this weird thing about making sure I never left the house hungry. Said athletes needed fuel, even if it meant she had to eat cereal bars in the car on her way to class.
But that morning? Silence.
When I dragged myself to the kitchen, all I found was a sticky note on the fridge. Her handwriting—messy and rushed, like she wrote it while running out the door.
"Busy today, kiddo. Make your own breakfast. Don't burn the place down. – Your lovely sister."
I stared at the note longer than I should've. It felt… wrong. Not the note itself—Elena was always busy. Between classes, her part-time accounting work, and chasing down leads for her articles, I barely saw her some weeks. But skipping breakfast?
I shrugged it off. She was probably just running on fumes. She deserved a break.
So I made toast, choked it down, and left for school.
---
School was school. Friends messing around in the hallway, teachers pretending they didn't hate their jobs. I had basketball practice after classes, and I was good at it. Real good. Coach said I had a natural eye—quick to adapt, quick to shift. I liked the rhythm of the court, how it made sense in a way life never did.
I wasn't a star. Not yet. But I held my own. Top three on the team, easy.
After practice, I hung around with some friends. We joked, argued about movies. I remember bragging about Escape from New York, telling them it was a classic and they had no taste. They rolled their eyes. But when I headed home, I already knew what I was gonna do—rewatch it for the tenth time, bowl of popcorn on my lap.
Normal. Everything felt normal.
---
When I reached the house, I checked my phone. No message from Elena. Usually by this time she'd sent at least one or two: Have you eaten, kiddo? How was practice? But nothing today.
That was weird. Still, I texted her:
"Hey, done with school. Just reaching home. When'll you be back?"
The message showed read. But no reply.
I tried not to think too much about it. Did my chores—mopped the floor, did the laundry, hung it out to dry. That sinking feeling in my gut wouldn't leave, though. I kept checking my phone. Still no reply.
So I threw on Escape from New York, sat on the sofa, homework in my lap. Kernel by kernel, I lost myself in the movie.
---
The sound of keys clanking in the lock pulled me back. Relief washed over me.
Then the door slammed open so hard I nearly choked on popcorn.
"Elena?" I called, half annoyed, half glad she was finally home.
She stumbled in—eyes wide, hair messy, breath ragged. Panic. Real panic.
"Go to your room, Jason," she snapped. No jokes. No explanations. Just fear.
I froze. "What's—"
"Now!" Her voice cracked like a whip.
I didn't argue. Not with that tone. I backed into my room, heart pounding. But I couldn't sit still. Not when I heard her pacing, her voice low and desperate on the phone. The line kept failing.
Then—
Crash. Glass shattered. Wood splintered.
"Elena!" I bolted out.
A man was on her, broad-shouldered, faceless in my memory except for the weight of him pressing her down, hands around her throat. She kicked, clawed, gasping for air.
I didn't think. I hit him like a linebacker, throwing everything into the tackle. We slammed into the TV cabinet. Wood cracked. He staggered, cursing, glass raining down.
"Elena!" I turned to her. She was coughing, trying to sit up, air finally rushing back into her lungs. I reached for her. "You okay? Are you—"
Click.
I froze.
The man, still half on the floor, had pulled a gun. His hand shook, but not enough.
Bang.
The shot ripped through the air. Elena's body jerked. My mind refused to process it. A graze. Just a graze. She's fine.
But when she hit the floor, blood spreading fast, I knew.
Something broke inside me.
I lurched toward her, but the gun swung to me. Reflex shoved me sideways. I dove over the kitchen table, crashing behind the counter as another shot splintered the air.
My breath came fast. My sister lay on the floor—bleeding, still. Her phone buzzed beside her limp hand.
The screen lit up. Jefferson ❤️.
For one insane heartbeat, I thought she'd reach for it. That she'd move. That this wasn't what it was.
But she didn't move.
The buzzing grew louder than the gunfire.
Bang. Bang. Shots chewed into the counter. My ears rang. My chest burned.
I grabbed the only thing near me—a frying pan—and hurled it across the kitchen. Metal clanged against the wall. The shooter's aim flicked toward the sound.
I moved.
I tackled him full-force. The gun skittered across the floor. My fists came down wild, frantic, fueled by panic and rage. His face crumpled under the hits, blood spraying, but I didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
"Elena—" I screamed her name between gasps.
Then—thud.
Pain exploded in the back of my skull. White light. My knees buckled.
The last thing I saw was another figure in the doorway. Watching. Shadowed.
Then—black.
---
The courtroom came after. Blurry, drugged, broken.
The slam of a gavel. Words I barely caught.
"…manslaughter…"
"…excessive force…"
"…tried as an adult…"
My hands were heavy. Needle marks stung on my arms. I tried to speak, to explain—to scream that I was defending my sister, that they came into our home, that she was—
But no one listened.
The man I killed—self-defense, they said, but too much. I didn't stop. I kept hitting him. That made it excessive. That made it a crime.
Seventeen years old, and they called me a criminal.
The gavel cracked like a gunshot.
Then there were bars. Cold steel, damp air, the stink of rust.
I pressed my forehead against the wall, my breath ragged. My head clear now—too clear.
This wasn't a nightmare.
It was real.
And now… now I'm here. In front of you.