I don't remember how long I stood there.
In the doorway. In the hallway. In the silence. It could've been minutes. It could've been days. Time doesn't work the same when something inside you breaks and doesn't bother telling your body.
There were bodies in the house.
People I had loved. Or tried to.
And I didn't call the police.
I didn't run, or scream, or collapse in the way that people do in stories, in interviews, in trauma documentaries. I just stood there — and listened. Not to the sirens. There weren't any. Not yet.
I listened to the house breathing.
It was still warm. As if it hadn't quite realized it was dead.
The smell was worse in the kitchen. Metal and rot and roses. I think he left flowers. I didn't look closely. I couldn't. There were too many things that might've been real. A glass still half-full. A shoe kicked off mid-step. My brother's sketchbook. Open. Untouched.
I took the book. I don't know why. Maybe because it wasn't stained yet. Maybe because he used to draw wings, and I needed something that wasn't torn apart.
The backyard was soft from last night's rain. The kind of earth you can mold with your hands. The kind of earth you don't need tools for.
So I didn't use any.
I didn't think. I just moved.
One by one.
Quietly.
A blanket became a shroud. My mother's favorite quilt — the one she used to drape across her lap on Sunday afternoons. She always said it smelled like lavender, even after she washed it.
I wrapped her in it.
I didn't cry.
Tears are for the innocent, and somewhere along the line, I had lost the right to call myself that.
It took me all night.
The holes weren't perfect. My hands were blistered by the end, but the pain was a good distraction. Every time my fingers scraped something sharp, I whispered thank you under my breath. At least I could still feel.
The sun rose while I was covering the last grave.
My father's was shallowest. Maybe because I loved him least.
I stood there, dirt under my nails, blood on my calves, sweat clinging to my neck like fingers. The birds were singing. Loud. Unbothered. Mocking.
I laughed.
It cracked out of me like a cough. Sharp. Hollow. A sound that had no business coming from a throat.
Then I went inside.
The house looked cleaner without them. Still. Not innocent, but emptied.
He had taken everything.
And somehow, it still didn't feel like enough for him.
There was a note on the bathroom mirror. I hadn't seen it before. Not handwritten — drawn. In lipstick. My lipstick.
No more distractions. Just us now.
My phone had 19 missed calls. 6 texts from classmates. A message from a university counselor reminding me to confirm my enrollment.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
I opened the group chat from school. Typed something neutral.
Hey. Taking a break from socials. Everything's fine. Just tired.
Send.
Block. Mute. Archive.
I didn't want questions.
I didn't want witnesses.
The black box still sat on my nightstand.
I hadn't touched it since the porch.
I almost wanted to burn it. But I didn't. That would've made this real.
Instead, I stared at it until sleep finally dragged me down by the wrists.
And even then, I didn't dream of the bodies.
I dreamed of the woods.
Of a boy with eyes like night terrors and a voice like velvet ruin.
He told me once, years ago, with his fingers tangled in mine like thread:
"One day, no one will be left to pull you away from me. And you'll thank me for it."
That was the last time I saw him.
Until now.
And somewhere inside, beneath the rot and numbness and ruin, a voice that still sounded like mine whispered back:
"I already have."