Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The orange-brown leaves bristled on their branches, until slowly, one shed off and dwindled down. William’s eyes followed as it fell like a snowflake in winter, dancing in the air like it rejected the very laws of gravity. But that was mere gravity, too. The leaves had more air resistance, and a bigger surface, like a feather. They’d learnt that in Physics recently.

Well, Henry had. William hadn’t paid much attention. He didn’t like their teacher. Saw him too often in church back in the day. A friend of the pastor’s, he’d been. And William wasn’t fond of the pastor.

William Afton, bright as a fire but quiet as a mouse, wasn’t fond of a lot of things. Picky, his mother called him, typically as she combed his hair and cut it into a neat bowl cut monthly. Although he was fond of his sister, Annabeth, or Ann, for short, and his best friend, Henry Emily. He preferred to keep his head down low and pass through life unacknowledged.

Particularly, he liked to sit out in the field near school. It was quiet, and so very peaceful. Away from the chaos of his home life, into the warm arms of Mother Nature. At least some mother out there was warm to him. There was Mrs. Emily, too, he supposed, but she was Henry’s mother, not his.

As the leaf fell to the grass before them, William reached out to take it into his hand. He liked collecting memorabilia. Little knick-knacks that Ann would surely call childish. Ann could call it childish all she wanted, it wouldn’t stop him.

Autumn was warm and beautiful to William, no matter what she thought.

Henry, seated on the grass by his side, let out a deep, exasperated sigh. The kind William heard from his father when he’d done something wrong. Had he done something wrong? Was Henry going to call him childish, too? If it were two against one, it wouldn’t be fair, honestly. But it wasn’t as if anyone would side with William. They never did. Only Henry did.

Surprisingly, Henry didn’t seem cross with him. He simply sat there, propped up on strained elbows, his dark curls falling into his eyes. William was quite fond of his eyes. That deep, dark brown that he loved to just stare at for hours. He knew every little detail to them. The little specs of olive and the way they looked like honey when the light hit them just right. It was fascinating. Henry was fascinating.

William just wished Henry took his glasses off more often.

“Why are you sighing?” He decided to ask as he lay his head down on the knees he’d been hugging tight to his chest.

He hoped Henry really wasn’t cross with him, because he didn’t have anyone else. Just Henry.

Eugh, ‘cross’, that was something Father always said.

Henry just shrugged, and that made William’s heart pound heavier inside his chest. What had he done wrong? He hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t crushed Henry’s hopes and dreams. He’d just sat there. Silently. Staring at the leaf that fell like a feather.

For a moment, he thought of it again. Gravity. If a ball fell, it wouldn’t look like a bird descending from the sky. It would just fall right down, with a bounce and a thud. If he fell from that same height, or higher, it’d go the exact same way, wouldn’t it? But he wouldn’t bounce, surely.

Rather, it would be like a splat or just a thud.

Or a crack from either his spine or skull or the pavement, if there were any. Death would never be quiet, would it?

Right, back to Henry. “It’s just . . . you know.”

“I don’t,” William whispered, wishing he did.

“If you let me finish you would.” Henry stuck out his tongue. No, he wasn’t mad. He wouldn’t be teasing him if he was, right? Wouldn’t he? Henry’s never been mad at him before.

Or well, he was. Once. When William had dropped his most cherished Marvel Universe card in a muddy, dirty puddle. Even then, he wasn’t mad for long. For thirty seconds, maybe, because William had bawled his eyes out, thinking Henry was going to hate him for it.

The week after, Henry pulled that exact same card from another pack. Wounds healed, Marvel-card-shaped hole filled, and tears dried. If he hadn’t managed to get the same card, would they still be friends? Or would Henry forever hold a grudge against him? That thought worried him. Nagged at the back of his mind.

Henry was all he had.

“School.” Henry sighed, and William almost did with him. It was just about school, was it? Henry didn’t hate him. That was a relief. “I just wanna be done with it.”

If they finished school, would they never see each other again? Would Henry go to some prestigious college and leave him behind? Like Ann had? Ever since she started high school, she barely bothered to spend time with him. Everything he did was childish to her now.

“What . . . what are you planning to study? After we graduate?” William dared to ask, pulling his knees closer to his chest. It was his shield. Though it clearly didn’t work all that much.

Henry shrugged. “I dunno yet. Maybe computer science or something. I’m good with that; computers.”

“Yeah . . .” What should he have said? Should he have begged for Henry not to leave? No, Henry would be repulsed. He’d just want to leave faster and faster. Like Ann.

Was it because they’d been bickering so much recently? Or was it because William kept refusing to go to church with Henry’s family? It must’ve been annoying to put up with someone like that. Like him. A total nag. Buzzkill.

It wasn't his fault, though. He probably wasn't allowed in their local church anymore, anyway. Not since the incident; the last time he went, he'd thrown up all over himself, and his father was less than pleased about it. The bruises ached for weeks.

Suddenly, Henry slumped down onto the grass. It almost startled William, almost made him flinch, but not quite.

Perhaps it was time for him to pay attention to his surroundings, not the irrational fears inside his mind. Still, easier said than done. It definitely got a lot easier when Henry opened his mouth.

“I want us to be friends forever,” He spoke, so earnestly, and William felt his eyes go wide. “Maybe that’s being stupid. But you’re my best friend, and I don’t want that to end, ever.”

William’s eyes almost felt like they were sparkling, and he turned to face Henry fully, dirt gathering under his palms. Really? Henry really wanted that? “You’d want that? You really would?”

“Duh!” Henry exclaimed as he stared up at his friend. His friend. They were best friends! Really! “We’ve been friends for forever now! I wanna stay friends for forever forever.”

“Forever.” William echoed quietly, like a mantra.

“Forever and ever. Let’s do everything together.” Henry nodded. With a fascinated sigh, William let himself lie down next to Henry, staring at his best friend. Best friend. Not just a normal friend. Best friend. That was special. He’d never been someone’s best friend before Henry. Or even had a best friend. “When we’re old . . . let’s die together, too.”

Death. That scared William. He always imagined dying alone, with nobody by his side. Ann wouldn’t be there, and by then, Henry would’ve left too. But if Henry was there . . . it didn’t sound all that scary. He wouldn’t be going alone, Henry would be there. He wouldn’t be alone.

William raised his head back to the sky, a tiny smile creeping up on his face. “Yeah . . . let’s die together.”

The incessant ringing of a cheerful, chirpy alarm had William peeling his eyes open unwillingly. His hand reached up, instinctively rubbing at the eyes he’d just barely opened. His room was still dark, only the slithers of sunlight peering in through a gap in the blinds. Another day, another . . . well, day? What else was new?

Not a lot at all.

The same routines, the same patterns, just the way William liked it. That way, it was all under control, and there was nothing to catch him by surprise.

The same room, too. Thankfully. It’d be a little strange if it weren’t. The same warm brown and white color scheme he had picked out years before, with pictures of loved ones on their nightstands, and a cup of joe long gone cold from the night before. The sun was peeking in through the curtains that were hung up above the door, the same door that led onto the backyard patio. In summer, Clara and William would sit out there for hours, even after the kids had long gone to bed.

Their room wasn’t grand or even spectacular; it never had to be. There was a vanity table for Clara in one corner of the room, and a simple dresser by the door. Those were just some of their clothes, however, because everything else was in their adjacent walk-in closet.

As always, the very first thing William consciously did was reach across the bed, feeling the familiar bump of a figure underneath the covers. The rise and fall of her chest, the gentle huffs of her breathing. She was there. As she should be. Always by his side, always there for him, just like he was for her.

“Just five more minutes . . .” The familiar voice groaned out an oh-so-familiar plea, and the second thing William consciously did since waking up was smile.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, the mattress soft underneath his fingertips. “Okay, five more minutes.” He replied.

Five more minutes was nothing. In that time, William could brush his teeth and get to the kitchen to set up a cup of coffee for her. With extra sugar, just the way she liked it. But before he’d get up, he’d give her some attention. And so he reached over, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pressing kisses all over her freckled skin, trailing up to her neck. His fingers tangled in her copper curls, pushing them aside.

Beneath him, Clara giggled and groaned, and it didn’t take her long before she started to push him away again. “Go, go . . .”

“I’m going,” William said, giving her only one more kiss. His fingers danced over her tan skin, incessantly. “I don’t want to go . . .”

“Go!” Clara repeated, a lot louder this time, and it only had William laughing more.

With a huff and a puff, and a particularly loud sigh, William climbed out of bed. His feet landed in his slippers, the same spot he set them up in every single night. He liked it that way. Just like how he set up his medication in the same spot, so he’d never forget it. Or just like how he hung up Clara’s bathrobe on the right of his own. Her orange one against his blue.

William loved cleaning, quite obviously. He loved his place nice and tidy. Perhaps it was thanks to his mother, who did nothing but clean his entire childhood. Perhaps he’d be the same for his children, be an inspiration for them to keep their homes clean in the future. Because as it was right now, they definitely would need that. Especially Michael. Especially. Michael.

Before William even realized it, he was brushing his teeth. Mornings always felt like this; like he was working on autopilot before his brain fully turned on. He rubbed at his eyes again, yawning, before delightfully choking on the toothpaste and coughing all the foam out right onto the mirror.

With tired eyes, he stared at himself. The same old reflection. A tall, well-built man, with dark hair and brown eyes that held a thin ring of grey-blue. He had warm skin, even in the coldest of winters, and a set of handsome yet gentle features that did his mother’s Asian heritage justice. Even now, he preferred to look like her than he did his father. Like he’d rejected his genes entirely even before being born.

People usually told him they were surprised he was only thirty-three, but thirty-three didn’t feel all that much of an ‘only’ to him. Thirty-three felt like a big-ass number to him. It wasn’t like he had the wrinkles filling up his face or the gray hairs sprouting from his scalp like grass, but still. He was a father of three, and he sure didn’t feel young anymore.

At least he was healthy. Not everyone had that kind of luck.

After finishing up in the bathroom, William made for the kitchen downstairs. His eyes paused on the calendar momentarily, before he turned away again. Was it November already? Just a month, and it was his birthday. It didn’t feel like much of a celebration anymore, not since Daniella left them.

With that thought nagging at his brain, William made his way back to the bedroom, setting the coffee down on Clara’s nightstand, and the tea on his own. He didn’t get along with coffee: mortal enemies, ever since he was born. He drank a cup before bed, just so he would fall asleep easily. Maybe that was thanks to his issues. The same issues that kept him from keeping still at his desk, and often had him interrupting his boss in the middle of his sentence.

Finally, Clara propped herself up on the bed, a pile of pillows functioning as her cushion. They talked about everything and nothing, just as they did every morning. Talking about who would drop the kids off, and the latest events at their jobs.

Clara, in the medical field, always had a story to tell. But William, who worked the repetitive, mundane job of IT, had not much to say about how he fixed a computer by restarting it.

People simply weren’t that bright, not when it came to computers. They usually assumed some super complex problem over the simplest. If the computer wasn’t turning on? That must mean it was broken beyond repair, not merely out of battery! Well, good thing William was patient and cheerful. Anyone else would’ve gone mad, but William loved his simple, repetitive job, and he did it with a smile. He was known for that, in fact. ‘Mr. Afton from the IT department, always smiling’, or just ‘Smiley’ at times. He liked that title. It was miles better than ‘Security guard Mr. Davis, who always picks his nose’ in every regard.

Smiles over scowls, right?

After their simple conversations, energy-replenishing cups of tea and coffee, he and Clara began to get dressed. On weekends they’d stick to their pajamas or loungewear, but it was only Friday, so pajama days had to wait a little longer. Just a little longer. Really little. Tiny.

William let his tie hang loose around his neck as he buttoned up his vest. A pin in his hair kept his dark locks stuck on the top of his head, instead of hanging so messily in his face. He didn't mind letting a part of his bangs free, though he should keep a somewhat neat appearance. Somewhat. Hairspray would replace the pin soon enough.

Same hairstyle every day, not the same outfit, absolutely not, but the same style. Neat. Tidy. Put together.

Didn't matter if he was a mess inside, as long as the exterior was neat, nobody would notice.

Clara would. She always did. She had a perceptive pair of eyes that just saw right through his every mask. His every facade, and he had many. It was a shield to protect himself, in a way.

“I have a party after work,” William had only begun to speak and Clara’s eyes immediately snapped over to him. “Roger is quitting.”

She tilted her head. Like she was thinking his words over. It made him crack a smile since she awfully resembled a puppy at that moment. Though he preferred cats. So maybe, a kitten instead. “Hmm, well, that’s fine. As long as you’ll be home on time.”

A promise he always tried to keep, but usually failed to. Sometimes it was traffic, other times it was his boss keeping him late because of a mistake he didn’t make. Usually, though, it was because William just had a terrible mental clock. Time simply didn’t exist until he looked at it.

Still, serious promises? He always kept them, no matter what. Even if it meant running a few red lights.

Take Michael’s latest 500-meter sprint. William had promised his son he’d come, even though he had work that day. His boss had decided to hold him up with the task of retrieving some monitors from the financial department. In his entire life, William had never run quite as hard as he had that day. He’d run at least six red lights, but he’d made it, albeit covered in sweat and what felt like a collapsed lung. The hundreds of dollars in tickets were worth it. That day, Michael had gotten first, setting a record at his school.

And gosh, really, the smile on Michael’s face when he spotted him in the crowd was worth millions.

“I’ll try.” William couldn’t directly say no, though. Not to Clara. Not to many people. Saying no simply wasn’t one of his strong suits. His kids definitely knew how to make us of that. “But it’s Friday, they can stay up a little late,” he paused as he saw the glare Clara cast his way, “but of course, I’ll be on time either way.”

“They’re kids, they need their eight hours of sleep.”

Doctor mode. She looked so attractive whenever she came home in her scrubs, her hair tied up, doing the thing she loved the most. Now was one of those moments, and his eyes lingered, smile growing. “Yes, doc’, I know. But they can sleep in.”

Clara rolled her eyes, “That’s not how it works—”

“Clara,” William interjected, laughing. His hand reached out to take hers in his own. “They’ll live.”

A sigh, and Clara pulled her hand away. Either she was about to admit defeat, or William would sleep on the sofa for the remainder of the year. It was always a mystery with her, but William knew how to charm her into forgiving him. “Just be on time, that’s all I’m asking.”

Defeat, it seemed. That didn’t happen often, not with Clara.

“And I said I’d be on time.” Clara just shrugged in response to that. He’d gone back on his word before, accidentally, so he knew she had reason to doubt his words. He took the hair tie from the grasp of her fingers, tying her hair up for her instead, nice and securely with her favorite green clip. He wasn’t as good at it as her, though he tried. And he loved doing things for her, no matter how small. It was a part of their routine, after all. “I’ll try, I will.”

Clara flipped her finger up, prodding it into his chest. “And you won’t drink. Don’t let me catch you with a whiff of alcohol on you, Mr. Afton.”

“I just love it when you call me that.” William couldn’t help but grin. He leaned in closer, and Clara pulled away with yet another roll of her warm brown eyes. Garrett got those from her, most definitely. Michael had his eyes, through and through. From the brown center, to the silver ring. Elizabeth . . . well, she got them from someone, surely. Probably his grandmother, who had green eyes. She got her curls and color from Clara, without a doubt.

She was stunning. With those sharp eyes, like honey, and those freckles that covered almost every inch of her skin. William loved all of her, but something about her freckles was especially stunning to him.

Clara’s voice snapped him out of his string of thoughts. He always had a habit of doing that; getting lost in thoughts of things he already knew. “I’m serious, Will.”

“I know, I know.” William raised his hands in a placating gesture. It wasn’t enough, he could tell. She had to share her mind, and he’d listen.

“I don’t like the person you become when you’re drunk.” With a heavy tone to her usually lullaby-like voice, Clara continued. “And I know shit has been awful, I really do. I mean, it’s been awful for me, too. But we’re in this together.” She reached out, her hand caressing his cheek. “It’s you and I. Not . . . you and a bottle of tequila, alright?”

William reached up to his face, taking her hand into his own once again. He wouldn’t let her pull away this time. “Alright.” He smiled, as did she. “It’s you and I, it always has been. I’ve been sober for almost two years now, I’m not gonna throw it all away.”

“You drank at your sister’s birthday party last month, what sobriety?” Snorted Clara with a shake of her head.

“Okay, that was one beer, and I haven’t touched alcohol since. I can handle a single beer.”

Clara grinned, happy with her victory, as small as it was. “Okay, well, you promised. No drinking tonight, even if it’s just one beer.”

“Mhm.” William hummed. He turned to Clara, wiggling the loose ends of his tie in her direction. That, too, was a part of their routine. And god forbid he let anything ruin his routine. “I promise. I always keep my promises.”

Serious ones, anyway. This was serious. This was about his pride, his reputation. And of course, most importantly, Clara’s trust in him.

Not to mention his kids’ trust. Their father was supposed to be someone reliable, someone they could depend on. Not someone who showed up late to their every event and important memory. He was better than that.

Better than his own old man.

Already beat him on the actually living part.

“You’d better,” Clara pulled a little extra on his tie, almost choking him, just to get him to lean down to her height so she could press a soft kiss against his lips, “unless you enjoy sleeping on the sofa.”

God. William loved this woman.

“Michael, get up!”

“Garrett, you’re going to be late!”

It was the same routine as every day. Well, every weekday. Weekends? William didn’t bother waking them up. Frankly, it was usually one of the kids coming to wake him up instead. They were as impatient as him, really.

Sure made him wonder who they got it from.

A mystery to never be solved, clearly. It was still Friday, and Friday was close to the weekend but not quite yet the weekend, as much as William wished it was.

Finishing his rounds upstairs, he trudged down the steps, past the living room, into the dining room, so warm and filled with sunlight. Their entire home was like that. So many windows, so much warmth. William had chosen it for a reason, after reviewing so many options with Clara. The perfect place to raise a family in. Lots of light, lots of warmth.

His own home growing up never had that. His father hated the light, always drunk as he was. So the curtains were always drawn and the heating was always turned off. In winter, especially Utah’s cold, cold winters, it made for some dreadful nights. And some even more dreadful illnesses. Especially when his own mother did nothing but smoke. Up until . . . well. When they figured out his lungs weren’t as cooperative as they should be.

As expected, Elizabeth was already at the dining table, her usual spot right next to him. Her legs swung back and forth as they hovered above the ground. When she saw her father, her green eyes just lit up with the most innocent of joys. “Daddy!”

“Lizzy!” William mimicked, ruffling her hair as he passed by, into the adjacent kitchen. “How’d you sleep? You didn’t stay up, did you? You’ll waste your screentime.”

“I didn’t . . .” Elizabeth whined, tossing her head back. “I even left it downstairs like Mom told me to!”

William hummed, nodding as he began to set up the table. Five plates and their family was complete. Five cups, too, of course. Or well, three cups and two mugs, because the oldest two needed caffeine. Not too much, though. Just a little. Tea for William, coffee for Clara. “Juice or milk today?”

“Juice . . . orange juice.” Elizabeth sighed, her head down on the table. “Can’t I skip school today? I wanna hang out with Charlie . . .”

Even though Elizabeth's skin was still smooth as silk, only ever showing a wrinkle when she pouted or frowned, William hoped one day, when she was a lot older, she would have the lines on her face to prove how happy she'd been growing up. Smile lines, just like him. Though that wasn't from his childhood, but everything that came after.

“Then you shouldn’t skip, since Charlotte is also at school.” William grabbed her favorite cup, the one with all the cats and flowers. He filled it up with juice, with just a twinge of water to dilute it. Just the way she liked it.

“But she’s not in my class! It’s no fair.”

Chuckling, William set down the cup in front of her just as Clara entered the room. The two of them couldn't share a class, because Elizabeth was ten and Charlotte eleven. Recently, though, Elizabeth had been asking her teachers about skipping a grade, though nothing has come from it. Even if she's more than smart enough.

“That’s life, Lizzy. You guys can walk home together, how about that?”

“With Garrett, I bet.” She mumbled under her breath.

“Don’t be cruel, Liz.” Clara tugged at her ear as she sat down at the table herself, while William took care of breakfast. Routines. Order.

“I know . . .” Elizabeth said in another mumble, but this time, there was a twinge of guilt to it. Kids were simple like that. Point out their mistakes, and they’d be quick to realize it. Quicker than adults.

Soft pitter-patters of footsteps approached. Judging by the gentleness of them, compared to Michael’s usual shuffling or stomping, this was the one and only Garrett Afton. As if summoned by their conversation about him. Speak of the devil, maybe? Though he wasn’t close to a devil. Not Garrett.

Garrett was an angel. As sweet as they came. Always had been, even as a snotty baby. Eight years later, nothing had changed. “Lizzy!” He called out, running in one straight line toward his big sister, hugging her tight.

“Hey, Gary.” Lizzy pouted. She hugged him back despite herself, and William grinned, satisfied. No matter how much she could complain, she loved the boy and was a proud big sister.

Now the table was set, and the only one missing was Michael. Of course. He usually was.

Garrett clung to his sister until William pried him away and set him down on his seat. He was already eight, but still so clingy. He didn’t even have to think who he got that from. Henry and Ann had plenty of stories about him. Ones they loved to tell non-stop. Absolutely non-stop. Every birthday.

Which was only a little more than a month away. Perhaps it was time he started mentally preparing for more embarrassing reminiscing sessions.

“Didn’t you wake Michael up?” Asked Clara, not accusingly, more curiously. They all knew Michael was the laziest, always sleeping in, always staying in bed while they were all ready to fill their stomachs with the delicious (William hoped it was, at least) meal ready for them at the table.

William shrugged, “Even yanked the sheets away from him.” He felt his tongue slip back into an accent he hadn’t spoken in since he’d moved out. His father loved to make him, but the second he got out, gone was any trace of Britishness.

Still, he saw the grin grow on Clara’s face and quickly gestured for her to shut up by wiggling his finger.

“You should’ve taken the sheets downstairs,” She said, still grinning from ear to ear, “he just pulls them back over himself nowadays.”

“Ah, took him long enough.” He turned away from the kitchen, “I’ll go pull him out, drag him down here if I have to.”

Clara snorted, and Garrett eagerly clapped his hands, “Okay, well be careful with his leg. He wants to go to the Olympics one day.”

“I’ll have to tell him they don’t do much ‘sleeping in’ in the Olympic village.” He called out, already climbing the stairs. Michael had the biggest room, though it was only slightly bigger than Elizabeth’s. The difference was that he had his own bathroom. He was the eldest, so he got to have that right. Like how Ann had her own room when they moved to America, and William had something the size of a closet.

To a child, a closet was a mansion as long as it was his own. He never spent much time in it, anyway. He’d usually crawl into bed beside Ann, or sleep over at Henry’s place and listen to the sound of his siblings shuffling around, dragging their mattresses into his room.

Mike’s door had a large poster of Usain Bolt on the outside, and the words “MIKE’S ROOM” on the front in those typical wooden letters. William could still remember the day he’d picked them out, all uncertain and hesitant, having to decide between blue with stripes or dots of white. In the end, he went with stripes. They were washed out now, and the white looked more like yellow, and the blue a lot more like gray. Maybe he was ready to pick dots this time.

Or maybe William could put some time aside this weekend and repaint them in his new favorite color: dark red.

Definitely an odd choice, as William was never quite a fan of reds in general. Frankly, honestly, sadly, he had a fear of blood. Hemophobia, Clara had said it was called. Didn’t help that Michael was prone to nose bleeds as a child.

He’d managed to keep it under control, though. If one of them fell and scraped their knees open, he’d be too focused on their wellbeing to even worry about the blood. Once that adrenaline wore off, though, he was right back to sweating and palpitations.

So why dark red of all colors?

William didn’t bother knocking, of course not. If it were the middle of the day and Michael could be doing anything, he would have out of respect for his privacy. But it wasn’t, and Michael was just asleep or on his phone doing less than-important things.

When he opened the door, the curtains were still open as he’d left them, but Michael had buried himself under the sheets. He could tell from the bump underneath them, and the top of his head poking out just barely. “Wakey wakey, Buenos Aires.”

An audible grumble and shuffling of sheets as Michael shifted in bed was all he got in response. Fifteen years of age and already as lazy as they came.

The state of his room was fine evidence of that laziness: it was a mess. A total mess. Clothes strewn all over the floor, opened textbooks and sketches on every surface. And that wasn’t even mentioning the mess on his bed. He’d be tasked to clean it tonight, though he never really did. He’d just stuff the clothes in the closet and throw the sketches in a drawer. Smart, but lazy. Smartly lazy. “Nah ah, Michael. We’re going to school.” He grinned, then paused as his hands hovered over the sheets. “Are you sick, bud?”

Just another groan.

And so he reached out, prying the sheets from Michael’s desperate monkey grip. Luckily, the boy didn’t seem like he was covered in sweat or shivering. Just lazy. Just Michael.

Good. There were a lot of things William hated — well, not many at all — but at the top of that list was certainly seeing his children ill. Having to hold Lizzy’s hair back as she sobbed and heaved, hearing Garrett cry his heart out at the slightest hint of nausea . . . it was like getting stabbed in the heart. He never wanted to see his children hurt, not in any way. Even if it was a simple flu or the common cold.

A tiny grin formed on his face, pulling at the corners of his lips, as was almost typical of him. There weren’t many moments where William didn’t look happy. Even when his face was relaxed, people thought he was smiling. Not a resting bitch face, but a resting nice face, or something. It was probably why he was developing smile lines at thirty-three.

Daniella had once said he had the same slight smile of a dolphin, no matter what he was doing.

Sure, when he was mad or upset, he didn’t look like he was smiling. That would just be stating the obvious, though. It wasn’t like one would typically smile at a funeral — unless they were the cause, maybe. Or if it were the person they loathed . . . though why show up to the funeral then?

Snapping out of his thoughts, William reached out, fingers clutching around Mike’s ankles. Immediately, he was wide awake. With the fervor of a man fighting for his life, Michael began to kick and screech. “No! No, I’ll get up! I’ll get up, Dad! Dad, stop it!”

William hesitated for a moment before letting him go, Clara’s warning about his legs echoing in his brain like an alarm chime. He was nothing if not careful, and a bit paranoid, admittedly. His brain always ran to worst-case scenarios before any reasonable one. “Alright, alright.”

Michael grumbled loudly, half still on the bed, half on the ground. “You’re lucky you’re so tall . . . I’d totally beat you otherwise.”

“Yeah, yeah.” William chuckled as Michael rose from the bed. He stumbled on unsteady legs and William reached out to ruffle his bedhead hair. It was one of Michael’s typical insecurities: his late growth spurt. He wasn’t short, not at all, but just shorter than most of his classmates. “You’ll be just as tall as me when you’re older, trust me. You’re just a late bloomer.”

“I need to be tall to be a runner. Usain Bolt is six—”

William tugged at his ear and nudged him through the door, “And you need to eat three meals a day, come on. You’re not going to get tall if you don’t eat properly.”

A huff left Michael, and begrudgingly, not without complaints, he began to make his way down the stairs. “How’d you get so stupidly tall, Dad? What’s the secret?” He cast a glance over his shoulder, up at his father.

“Being totally awesome.” That got a snort from Michael — a mocking one, of course.

“You’re as tall as fucking . . . Matthew Li—”

“Language.”

“Uh-huh,” Mike rolled his eyes, “But you’re in IT, instead of like, I dunno, basketball.”

“Because I don’t like sports.” They turned the corner into the dining room, where Clara was chasing after Garrett who tried to sneak off toward the pantry. Most likely for snacks, as now that he seemed to be sentient, he couldn’t resist the cravings for sugars. “And my lungs don’t either.”

Michael’s brows darted up, the reminder of his father’s crappy lungs flashing over his face. “Ohh . . . right. What if I have that, too?”

“First of all, we would’ve noticed that by now.” Clara declared, Garrett back on his seat, chewing a piece of bacon like a starved man and a dog at the same time, somehow. “Second of all, you can still do sports even if you have asthma. That one, uh, figure skater, I think — he has asthma. Still won the Sochi Olympics.”

Leaning on her palm, Elizabeth listened with wonderous eyes, darting between her parents. “Wow, really? I wanna become a figure skater! I wanna win the Sochi Olympics, too!”

A cackle left Clara, “That’s gonna be difficult, hon. Sochi won’t be on the list for a long while.”

Something something doping, William could remember. He’d never been one to watch the Olympics, but every year they did have it playing on the television. Sometimes he’d hover by the screen, watching for some moments, yet never too many. Michael, however? Whenever it came to sports, he was glued to the sofa. Especially track running.

William may not have been one for sports, but he was a father. Through and through, and nothing could ever change that. So no matter how boring he found sports, when it was Michael on the tracks, he was screaming until he couldn’t breathe.

Given, that happened quickly.

And typically, Clara would shut him up before then.

“Can I try figure skating, though?” Elizabeth asked, her mouth stuffed. Clara gestured for her to clear her mouth before she spoke, and when she had, she repeated herself. “Can I try figure skating?”

After exchanging a glance, both Clara and William nodded. “Sure, let’s look at some clubs nearby this weekend, alright?” Clara suggested.

“Why not today?” Lizzy lamented, and Garrett parroted back her words.

“Because I’ll be home late,” William answered as he wiped the crumbs from his lips and out of his stubble. “We have movie night, remember?”

“Really?” The shock on Mike’s face had William confused, frankly. “Tonight? But me and Jeremy were gonna—”

William wiggled his finger, “Friday nights are movie nights, Mikey. Those are the rules.” He grinned as Michael tossed his head back.

A tsking sound came from Clara, “Just invite him over next week. He can join movie night.”

“Why not tonight? Can’t I invite him over tonight?” Asked Michael almost immediately.

Elizabeth answered for them, groaning loudly. Her curls fell from her face as she tossed her head back even further than her brother had, like she was competing with his frustration. “Because I don’t want him to come over tonight. It’s our family movie night, not including stupid Jeremy.”

“You’re just jealous I have friends.” Spat Michael.

“I have friends, too!” She retorted immediately, arms crossed over her chest.

“Oh, yeah? Name five.”

“You’re so lame!”

For a moment, William and Clara let them bicker, exchanging exhausted glances until they began to scream, and William felt his ears prick at the sound. “Alright, alright, that’s enough. We’re not going to change plans for tonight last minute, and Jeremy can join us next week.”

“I want Charlie to join tonight, if Jeremy can join next week!” Elizabeth demanded almost immediately.

It almost seemed like this was all part of her plan, a sneaky plan set up so they would invite Charlotte — and if it were, all the credit to her. William wasn’t sure if she got that from him or her mother. Could be either, realistically.

Another glance was quickly exchanged between the two parents, and Clara urged him silently to make the decision, which really meant if the choice wasn’t universally liked, he’d be the one to blame. That was just how parenting worked. Sometimes it was Clara who had to make those choices, sometimes it was him. Today, it was him. And he really hated doing it.

After a pause, William nodded his head. “Alright, sure. Charlotte can come over tonight. And hey, maybe we should invite Henry, too.”

“It’d be nice if Uncle Henry came over, right guys?” Clara eased the pain, the tone of her voice convincing them more than anything. Of course, they couldn’t say no either way. No matter what, they couldn’t hate their Uncle Henry. It was impossible, really. Henry was like their second father. “Will, how ‘bout you drop the kids off at Henry’s, go invite them over?”

Shrugging, Michael seemed to give in, fiddling with his phone for a bit. See? Not even Mike could fully deny it.

William nodded his head, shoving a piece of bacon into his mouth. The crispy flavor exploded on his tongue, “Sure. We don’t see him around enough at all. We need to show him some love, right guys?”

There was silence, until Clara repeated his words. “Right, guys?” More incessantly, sharper. Demanding answers from children who had their mouths stuffed with food. And answers they gave, even if they were just hummed.

That was Clara. Ever so gentle, and sharp as a knife when she needed to be. Like a scale of kindness and wit, balanced evenly as humanly possible.

Just as William shoved a piece of bacon into his mouth, he heard his phone burst to life with a familiar, horrifying noise. The sound of chiming bells, something straight out of a horror movie. Of course, it was just the ringtone he’d set up for his sister, the sound of impending doom. That was how it felt whenever she called or texted him.

Horrifying.

The fate of a younger brother, was it?

To be tortured and tormented.

No phones at the table, though. That was a rule, even if Michael got a pass for a minute. He’d read the text later, he was in no hurry.

As he ate, William’s eyes drifted over to a portrait on the wall. It was old; from when Garrett was still much younger and Daniella was still with them. Back when the skies were just a little brighter.

She never left them though, not really. Nothing could ever take her memory away.

Thinking back, it had been a lot at the time. To lose Daniella. For all of them. William had kept his pain inside for a while, resorted to the feeling of alcohol burning down his throat and numbing all his feelings until it was bearable. Clara had intervened, stopped him, got him the help he needed.

Now, after years of sadness, years of tears, it was time for them all to smile again.

Despite it being the middle of November, and despite the chill in the air that had William sniffling and coughing, the sun was shining bright as ever. It had to be around sixty Fahrenheit, surely. Apparently, that was warm enough for Michael to pull on his shorts and a red shirt with funky patterns on it. He couldn’t ever imagine wearing that outside of summer, but to each their own. Hell, Mike was even wearing a dark red sweatband around his wrist.

On the other end of the spectrum were Elizabeth and Garrett. Elizabeth had her hair tied up nice and neat with a large white bow at the base, wearing her favorite outfit: a soft pink shirt with a frilly, layered collar and a red-white plaid suspender skirt overtop. Of course, she had to stay warm with a pair of white stockings and brown boots. It was cute, yet warm. Then there was Garrett, with his thick, striped sweater and simple blue jeans. He was more like William as a child: crying tons and never one to dress up. Simplicity always won.

When he turned back to his kids, he noticed Elizabeth still hovering in the doorway. Her feet shuffled, like she was itching to run back to her room, or just away from school in general. Didn’t make much sense for her: she loved school. Especially the walk to and from, where she’d be able to walk side by side with little Charlie.

“What’s the matter, Lizzy?” William called out, gaze flicking down to his watch. They had some time. At least enough for him to drive them down to Henry’s place, pop in for a quick chat, and still be on time for work.

Elizabeth looked up at him, and then back into the house. “I forgot my homework . . .”

“Alright, go get it then.” It was as if William’s words were the bang of a starting pistol, because off went Elizabeth.

William, and everyone else, could hear her footsteps rush down the house, toward the stairs, and that was when he couldn’t hear them anymore.

Standing in the doorway, Clara grinned at him. “She always forgets something.”

“I wonder who she got that from,” William replied sarcastically.

They all knew who. The amount of times William had forgotten his assignments in college was enough to win him a world record spot. One of his professors actually kept count, though William couldn’t remember if it was seven or eight times. And that was only one of them. Still, he got his assignments done, and he got his degree. Somehow. That had to be worth something.

It wasn’t William who got them their house. Sure, IT paid well — extremely well — but it was more so thanks to Clara. Being a doctor paid a lot better. After she paid off her pile of student loans, of course.

“You’re leaving soon too, right? I would give you a ride if it weren’t in the opposite direction.” Said William as he stepped back into the house, just to be closer to Clara.

She shrugged and reached out to fix his tie, which had apparently gone askew. “I’ll switch jobs, work closer to your company, huh?”

It wasn’t serious, but god, how much he would love that. The very idea of it brought a smile to his lips. “I could do that too. I’ll think about it. Maybe there’s a job opening in the area, you never know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Teased Clara, arms folded over her chest. “I’m already set to spend ninety percent of my life with you, I could use a little break at work.”

At that, William couldn’t help but snort. “Till death do us part, or something, right?”

“Oh yeah, I remember someone saying that. Can’t really place it, though.”

Clara, oh Clara. She looked so beautiful with that grin on her face. The way it made her brown eyes sparkle like stars in the night sky, as shiny as gold, though not as valuable. No, Clara was much more valuable. More than any amount of gold, any quantity of diamonds. She was simply invaluable.

Perhaps God was real — because where else would an angel like Clara have come from? He must’ve been a saint in a past life to be deserving of such a wonderful woman.

Rapid patters of tiny feet approached just as William was about to call out to Elizabeth. “You got it?”

“I got it!” As she passed, Clara gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

“Have fun at school, guys.” She waved at Garrett and Michael, who as always, gave one in return.

Michael was going through his teen rebellion phase, sure, but that could never have him giving his mother the cold shoulder. Even if he did, she wouldn’t let it slide. Clara would get a response no matter what it took.

Now, William turned to her. “I’ll get going too,” he leaned in just as she did, and they exchanged a quick parting kiss, as they did every morning.

“See you tonight,” said Clara, a tiny smile on her face and a look in her warm eyes that reminded William of the promise he’d made: be on time.

Just like Michael, or any of the other kids, he was never allowed to disappoint Clara. Not just because of the wrath that would soon follow, but because he hated to do so. Hurting Clara in any way? He would rather die. He’d done so plenty over the past years. From his struggles with alcoholism, to simply being a rather lackluster boyfriend, and later, husband. He was making up for that now.

Even if Clara said it was okay, that it was in the past, it wasn’t okay for him. William was nothing if not a perfectionist, and the kind of person who blamed himself before anyone else.

Daniella? It may as well have been his fault she passed.

Though he didn’t want to entertain that thought for much longer. Because if he did, then it would only be a matter of time before the bitter taste of tequila was going to get real tempting again.

Now back outside, back in the humid, nasty air that California’s autumns managed to bring, their three kids were wrestling to get the clearly locked car doors open.

“You ready to go?” William asked, though it was more rhetorical. He was just waiting for them to finish fighting over who got shotgun before they broke the handle off the door.

In the end, as usual, Michael won. There wasn’t much Elizabeth could do, especially since she’d already sat in the front last time he’d given them a ride to school. Garrett? He was content sitting in the back, and never asked for anything more.

Once again, just like William had been as a child. Enjoying the simplest of things.

Life was beautiful if you knew where to look. If you knew how to appreciate it. William used to spend hours just watching ants prance around on the street, and when it had been a rainy day, he’d carry the snails across the road to keep them safe from the bottom of people’s shoes.

Perhaps that was the result of being raised with little to nothing. Raised in fear, surrounded by hatred. He had to hold onto the sunshine in every area it could reach.

And maybe that was why he was so scared to lose it.

The drive to Henry’s was short and sweet, just like Clara. After all, they could never bear to be far apart. Growing up together, they could never spend more than a day without one another. Henry was like a brother, in some way. A companion. Something deeper than a normal friendship.

Clara had known. She was perceptive, after all. She had noticed the lingering stares, the way Henry would hold him just a little too tight. And she had never once been anything but accepting. Perhaps that was because William, too, saw the way she looked at Daniella. Just a little too lovingly.

And that was okay.

In the end, all of them were one big family. But Henry wanted to keep up the image of normalcy, and really, so had Clara. They could bear to live a few streets apart. Back then it was only streets. Now, days and weeks would pass before they saw each other. A piece was always missing. A hole in their hearts that could never truly be filled, a silence in their conversations, a pair of shoes missing by the door — they were just never quite complete.

Life went on. That was the worst part. Life kept going, the world kept spinning, and they had responsibilities they couldn’t ignore.

Even now, as William parked his car in the driveway of Henry’s house, he paused. A part of him, naive and young, expected to see Daniella peeking out through the window as she always had. She was always the first to spot them whenever they visited. So much so, that there would be a handprint on the same spot. It lingered for months after she passed, and even now, there was still a handprint there. Though it was smaller, and it wasn’t Daniella who looked at them through the window.

It may as well have been, because that little ball of sunshine and energy resembled her so much. The same dark skin and even darker hair, curly and usually braided. Though her eyes were Henry’s. William could recognize them from anywhere. With those specs of olive in their dark depths.

Elizabeth, of course, was the first to run over to the front door which opened almost immediately. After her ran Garrett, and William was quick to follow behind. Michael muttered something about waiting outside.

As he passed by the window, William almost paused. His hand itched to reach for the window, to press his hand against the spot where Daniella would always press hers. They’d be connected one last time, and maybe he could finally bring himself to say goodbye.

He couldn’t, though. Not yet. Perhaps he was being a tad pathetic, holding onto his grief after years, but he couldn’t help it. Daniella was like a sister to him, like Ann, yet differently.

Daniella understood him. Really understood him, his pain, his fears. In a way nobody else had.

The window passed by him as he went into Henry’s home, and instead, he quickly found himself standing in the familiar living room instead — the other side of the glass.

It had happened there, in that very same room. None of them had been at home. None of them would be there to save her. And that guilt ate away at all of them. Daniella didn’t die in their arms, didn’t die surrounded by love. She died all alone. How scared she must have been. And how scared William is of a death just like that.

When Henry emerged, William managed to straighten out his face. He’d gotten good at that — pretending nothing was amiss — yet the air was still strangely tense.

Elizabeth was showing off her assignment to Charlie, and Garrett was standing by idly, not understanding a thing. They didn’t sense it, but William did. Perhaps it was the room, perhaps it was their abrupt appearance, or perhaps the look in Henry’s eyes that William just couldn’t quite place. For now, he was distracted by his little girl.

“Hey Charlie,” he greeted cheerfully, though Charlotte beat him in cheer easily.

“Hi, Uncle Will!” Before he could say another word, Charlotte was running toward Elizabeth, dragging her up to her room, rambling out words of needing to show her something.

For the past years, Henry had been haggard. An outgrown beard, a mess of hair, and clothes that were usually in disarray or even stained. Though not once did he neglect Charlotte. She was always nice and tidy, her clothes freshly washed and her hair braided.

Yet today . . . Henry was neat. His beard had been trimmed cleanly, and even his hair had been cut. He looked like he was ready for a photoshoot, frankly.

A smile tugged at William’s lips at the sight. It really was the time for smiles and joy, wasn’t it? The sunshine after the rain, the light at the end of the tunnel. They’d managed to pull through, and now, it was time to enjoy life again.

“Hey, Will,” Henry remarked, and almost immediately, William clapped him on the shoulder.

Garrett visibly startled at the noise, before relaxing. “You’re looking clean.” William grinned.

Then his gaze shot down, onto the glistening silver jewelry around Henry’s neck. The ornament that was resting atop his green sweater. “Yeah. Decided it was time for something better.”

A cross.

Swallowing thickly, William felt his smile quiver for a moment, before he met Henry’s gaze again. He forced himself to take a deep breath, willing away the chaos in his brain, the memories that threatened to surface and swallow him whole. He hadn’t worn a cross in a while. For a reason. For William’s sake.

Just focus on Henry, he told himself.

There was a quiet peace in his eyes. Acceptance in those deep browns, yet also a distant look. Like he still wasn’t entirely there yet. But it was progress. It was something. Something better than what they had.

“You look great, Hen.” He said. And he was being honest. Henry was looking great.

With that fluffy black hair, that warm skin, and those deep eyes — well, Henry was a looker. Always had been. As he got older, he looked more like a father, the kind one would see in movies and dream of. Or maybe that was just William. After all, his own father wasn’t much of a father at all. Easy to want a replacement for something that was flawed.

Henry cracked a smile, yet it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Things are . . . they’re finally looking up, Will.”

That got William smiling more genuinely, less nervously.

“They are, aren’t they?” He agreed, nodding his head. “Speaking of things looking up, how about you come over tonight? We’re having our weekly movie night, thought you might want to join us.”

William knew he was still treading on thin ice with cracks all over. One wrong step, one push too much, and Henry would come falling through. With his heart beating heavily in his throat, he watched Henry carefully, analyzing his every move. Every wrinkle, every muscle moved.

And then he nodded. “Sure, that sounds fun. Charlotte would love that.”

Instantly, the relief washed over William, and the tension left the room. There he was again; the Henry William knew and loved. Well, he loved every version of Henry, but he would be lying if he said seeing his best friend grieving hadn’t utterly gutted him for the past years. Of course it had. And now it seemed like he was starting to heal. Slowly but surely.

Ready to face the world again. Without his soulmate. And with non-muddy glasses this time, judging from how polished they were today.

“What’s on the agenda?” Asked Henry, and the tiny grin that tugged at the corners of his lips — making his mustache and beard curl up — had William cracking an even larger smile.

As he leaned against the dining table, William shrugged his shoulders. “Probably something sweet. Disney is my guess. Maybe Shrek.”

Henry fixed his glasses, “I remember going to Shrek in the theaters when it came out. Gosh, how old were we again?”

“I was barely eighteen, you were nineteen by then.” Answered William, and he glanced over his shoulder to make sure Elizabeth and Charlotte weren’t blowing anything up now that they were nearby again. “I more specifically remember being high as a kite.”

A snort left Henry as he clapped his shoulder, though he was a lot stronger than William, so it stung a bit. Still, William’s grin couldn't help but widen. There you are again, Henry Emily. “Didn’t you wake up thinking you’d made the entire thing up?”

“Can you blame me?” He asked, bewildered. “It’s Shrek!”

Surely enough, Henry nodded with a grin. “I’ll vote for Shrek, then. Feels awfully nostalgic.”

“Makes me feel old.”

“We’re getting there, huh?” Noticing something on the floor, Henry bent over to pick it up. Some kind of pen, from what William could see. As he reached for it, the cross around his neck began to swing, back and forth, and then in circles. Like a pendulum, deciding his fate.

And then he straightened again, the cross landing back on his chest. William’s gaze lingered, before forcing it away again. “Well, I’d rather not dwell on it. Thinking about feeling old makes me feel old.”

“That tends to be how the brain works,” Henry replied, in a smart-ass fashion that suited William more than it did him.

“Ha-ha,” William flicked his wrist up to get a look at the time. “Alright, we should get going. Or really, I should, before my boss kicks me out ass-first.”

“Wouldn’t be the first.” Henry shrugged, and William made a motion of slitting his throat and then pointing at him. That had Henry chuckling with a shake of his head. “Alright, outta here, Afton.”

As he was pushed and ushered out, William waved for his herd of little ducks to follow. “Party starts at nine sharp. Don’t be late, or Shrek’s off the table.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” William perked a mocking brow at Henry’s intentionally cryptic manner of speech.

Weighing the options in his mind, William settled on discussing Henry’s odd behavior with Clara tonight. Maybe she would notice more to it than him, with those sharp eyes of hers.

And then they were back outside. Back in the air that felt a little clammier than before, and a little more irritating to his lungs. He coughed into his fist, eyes searching for Michael. He’d expected him to be in the same spot he left him, ready to leave, but he was wrong, apparently.

Instead, he found Michael standing at the side of the road, chatting with some kid on a bike. No, not some kid. His best bud since kindergarten; Jeremiah Yoon.

Ever since the two of them met when they were toddlers, they’d been inseparable. Two peas in a pot.

Jeremiah was a tall kid, taller than Michael. He had dark skin and a thick head of curls, just like Charlotte, but a tad lighter. And unlike Charlotte, he had hooded eyes, and his curls were more coily. He seemed to spend a lot of time styling it, too. Jeremy was a good kid, and he’d practically been a part of their family by now. Especially considering how often Michael brought him over. Sometimes with his younger sister, Cassidy.

Oftentimes in summer, William would come home to find them floating on their backs in the pool, trying to cool down. Not that he could blame them in any way, of course.

Approaching the sidewalk, Jeremiah immediately met his gaze. His hand lifted up, and he waved, “Good morning, Mr. A!”

William grinned, one hand in his pocket and the other waving at the kid. “Morning, Jeremy. How are your folks doing?”

“Good!” He replied merrily. “They’ve been asking if we could have dinner together again sometime. My mom makes mean dholl puri!”

“I know, I’ve been over more than you can remember. I watched you grow up, you rascal.” That got a nervous laugh from Jeremy. What a rascal he used to be, indeed. A biter, to put it shortly. Nobody was spared, not even William.

Checking his watch again, he noticed the minutes trickle down. He needed to leave, or his boss would have his head for it. “Alright, well, I’ll see you around.”

“Sure! Good day, Mr. A!”

William chuckled, waving over his shoulder as he approached his car again. For some odd reason, Garrett had climbed into the backseat again, and thus William was now tasked with pulling the giggling child out of the seats. For a moment, he tossed him over his shoulder, the laughter intensifying before he set him down. When Garrett was little, he’d do the same, and the boy absolutely loved it. It was the easiest way to soothe him, especially since he was such a crier.

“You stick close to your sister, Gary.” He turned to Elizabeth, but Garrett got to her before he could. “Don’t let go of his hand, yeah? Not—”

“Not even for a second,” Elizabeth rolled her eyes as she clasped their hands together, “I know. You tell me this every day.”

She got her sass from Clara, surely. William was too gentle a child back in the day. Too shy. “My bad, my bad. I forgot how clever my little girl is. You sure know how to hide it.” He ruffled her hair, although delicately to not ruin her tight ponytail, even as she pouted up at him. “I’ll be off now. See you guys tonight, yeah?”

Garrett let go of Elizabeth just to give him a hug, and it took Charlotte doing the same for Elizabeth to join as well. Only Michael was left out. Typical teen rebellion.

Just as the warm hug ended and William was about to climb into his seat behind the wheel, Michael appeared hesitantly. His shoulders were tense and raised, hands hidden in his pockets. “Dad,” he called out.

“Hm?” William stopped short, hand resting on the opened door. “What’s up?”

“Can I . . . talk to you about something?”

With pursed lips, William flipped his wrist up to check his watch. If he left now, he’d have to speed in order to get there on time. Curse him and his stupid conversations about Shrek. “It’s important.” Affirmed Michael, only making him hesitate more.

“I . . .” William bit down on the inside of his lip, the guilt welling up in his throat. This mattered to Michael, he could tell. But at the same time, he was in a hurry. “Hey, how about we talk about this tonight? I have a meeting first thing in the morning, I can’t be late.”

Immediately, Michael’s face fell, and with it William’s heart. “I promise we’ll talk tonight, yeah? I swear on everything. We’ll talk however long you want to. Okay?”

“Okay.” Michael agreed, thankfully. A shimmer of hope returned to his face, and William smiled.

“Alright, love you.”

“Yeah, love you too . . .”

After getting into his car, he watched over Michael a moment more. Like he was committing his face to his memory. Such a strange thing to do, when he would see him again that night. It wouldn’t be their last moment. So William pulled his eyes away, putting the handbrake down, and shifting the car into drive.

It was supposed to be a short night out. It really was: William had even told his co-workers as much. But life had different plans.

The entire workday flew by as quickly as it usually did. The meeting about their department, discussing goals and points of improvement. It was as boring as it usually was. It was more rare if they actually discussed something of importance. No, it was always the same recycled things.

And then came the goodbye party. William had told his boss, and all his co-workers, that he would leave early, wrapped nicely with an apology. When it came to it, he wasn’t able to leave. Even the promise of staying away from alcohol went out the window when his colleague practically forced a beer bottle into the palm of his hand, and peer pressure always had William in its clutches, because it was down in one go.

Still, he wasn’t drunk. Not by any means. All that came with the beer was the need to piss every five minutes. After the beer, he kept drinking water, even if that was a mere myth. Maybe he could trick his mind into forgetting about the alcohol. And maybe the water would get rid of the scent of it.

Best thing he could do was avoid kissing Clara for tonight.

By the time William was set to drive home, it was already past ten. He wasn’t just a little late — he was hours late. Nine was when the movie night started, and it’d almost be eleven by the time he got there.

Fuck, it made him feel like the worst father in the world. Clara was going to cut him into tiny pieces, and he’d probably be sleeping on the sofa if she caught a whiff of alcohol on him. If only he was a good liar. If only. Because he really, really wasn’t. At least she wasn’t one to send him sleeping outside, considering his fragile little lungs.

In summer, though? Free range.

No cold to irritate his lungs then. Not that it happened that often. It was rare, really. Clara only kicked him out of their room if he’d really messed up. And it absolutely felt like one of those nights.

As he pulled up in the driveway, William felt his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. The weight of his actions was setting in, and guilt was heavy on his shoulders. How could he have given in like that? Even if it was just a single beer, he’d made a promise. He wasn’t one to break promises. Especially not one as serious as this. But he hadn’t just broken one promise, he’d broken two: staying sober and being home on time.

He was done for.

Mentally, William prepared himself for a night on the sofa as he parked his car in the garage. A silent prayer to God, a man he never believed in until he needed him. And it was one of those moments.

His phone rang again, as it had been for about ten minutes now. An unknown number, some persistent spam call, surely.

The door leading from the house into the garage was locked, at least he expected it to be so he didn’t bother trying to open it. They had a perfectly fine side entrance, so they rarely left that door unlocked. On top of that, leaving it unlocked usually meant leaving it open, and that meant cold air was free to seep into the home. Nope. They kept it locked tightly.

William trudged toward the side entrance with that same heavy pounding in his chest. It rumbled against his ribs, making every breath feel like a challenge. He was way more nervous than he should be, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it. He was just an anxious person, and the guilt was crushing him. Maybe that was why his hand was trembling, and why he couldn’t get the key into the lock.

Finally, he managed to, and stepped into the warmth of his home. Passing by the washing machines and the adjacent pantry, he paused. Strangely enough, the door to the basement wasn’t just ajar, but wide open.

Had Clara gone down to grab something? The thought was fleeting as he considered calling out to them.

What right did he have to cheerfully announce his return? He was late. He should just appear with a head hung low and shame on his tired face.

As he walked further into the laundry room, he pulled at his tie, setting his things down on the counter. That was when it hit him. A strange metallic scent in the air, like iron. The kind of strange, unique odor he’d only ever smelt before in a butcher’s shop. A place he definitely never enjoyed going to, but was often forced to as a child. His father preferred it to meat bought from the big-chain grocery stores. It was the day of the week he despised the most, even though the butcher would try to cheer him up with a piece of ham filled with molten cheese.

He wasn’t in a butcher’s shop, though. He was in his own home — so what was this scent? Had Clara left meat out in the open? No, even then, it was too pungent. Too strong.

Heart still pounding away in his chest, William turned through the doorway and entered the kitchen, his eyes darting over to the stove. It was empty, not a trace of anything having been cooked since dinner. There was a plate wrapped in tinfoil, surely a meal saved for him.

As he continued in his steps, eyes still locked on that plate of food, something . . . squished under his shoes.

Brows furrowing, William’s eyes snapped down to his guilty foot, expecting water or even a bit of food. Instead, in an instant, his heart fell to the pit of his stomach. Under the tip of his shoe was the familiar, nauseating crimson shade of . . . blood.

Blood.

Blood?

Immediately, William’s stomach began to do flips, and his gaze followed the streak around the kitchen island, to the fallen stools. But as it did, his gaze darted up to the television, the screen gone dark and gloomy. He could see himself in the reflection, his eyes wide and filled with terror.

Blood. Everywhere. On the walls, the floor, the furniture. A grotesque painting of its own design. Not a single space seemed to have been spared. The red consumed it all, like a parasite. Even where there weren’t splashes of red, the scarlet shade would draw your eyes away from them.

Then his gaze flickered down again. Down to the picture of Daniella on the fireplace, down to the shape on the sofa. And it lingered there.

William didn’t even realize he was holding his breath. Too distracted. Too horrified.

There he lay, blood pouring from wounds he couldn’t see — Michael.

Michael?

Instantly, before William’s brain even caught up, before his nauseous stomach could settle, he was moving. Toward his son, his little boy. “Michael,” he breathed, and then it became a cry, “Michael!”

Before he could even get out of the kitchen, his foot caught on something, and he stumbled for a moment, just barely keeping from tripping. His gaze shot down, Michael forgotten for a moment and no more than that. He expected it to be a fallen stool, a toy, or something from the kitchen that had fallen. Tunnel vision.

It wasn’t.

“Clara?” His voice was no more than a squeak, like a child croaking out their first word. Clara’s name was always on his lips, just an inch away from being spoken out loud, but not like this. Not with such horror.

The blood was — no — it pooled around her like a carpet of red. Her hair splayed out around her, a halo of curls. Her eyes were still wide open, staring into nothingness. Not him. Not anyone. Her name fell from his lips again, quietly. It must have been too silent, because she didn’t respond.

William’s knees gave out, and he was practically crawling toward her. “Clara,” he called out again, trembling hand reaching for her face. But she wasn’t there. She wasn’t answering. Why? The light was gone from those bright eyes, no star-like sparkle, no nothing. Just a vacant look. “No, no, no . . . Clara! Answer me!”

Just as he reached for her shoulder, to wrench her free, to take her into his arms, he noticed the tiny figure in her own arms. The head she was cradling against her chest, the tiny hands clinging to her. And that head of brown curls, those scared brown eyes . . . Garrett.

This couldn’t be happening.

The tears had stained their cheeks alongside their very own blood. Garrett’s mouth was still open, like he was stopped in the middle of a cry, and William’s airways tightened as they choked on a painful sob.

This wasn’t happening.

“Oh god, no,” William cradled his face, wiping at the dried tears. “No . . . no! Hold on . . . I’ll . . . just hold on. I’ll figure this out. I’ll—”

Garrett’s skin was still warm beneath his fingers, just as it had been that morning. When he reached to ruffle his hair, to wake him up, to toss him over his shoulder, and when he’d pressed Clara’s lips against his own.

No.

This wasn’t real.

They were fine. They just needed to get to a hospital, they just needed to . . .

The shock was like a drug, coursing through his veins and leaving him breathless, gasping for air as he remembered to. Then, he forced himself to stand. Somebody must have broken in — he had to save whoever was left. Elizabeth, Charlotte, Henry . . . Michael?

William rushed to his feet, nearly tripping over the stool he’d already forgotten about. And then nearly over the edge of the carpet. Still, he reached Michael, hand gripping his shoulder desperately. Those same distant, glassy eyes. No light, no mischievous sparkle. His arm hung limply over the side of the sofa, his phone just out of reach on the floor. “Mike!” He called out, yet no response came. “Michael! Come on, bud! Come on, I’m here!”

Sitting down on the sofa, he tried to pull Michael into his lap, when a clatter came, and then, footsteps. The haze of shock lingered, leaving a ringing in his ear, and he climbed to his feet. “Mike, just hold on . . .” he rasped, coughing, “Henry! Elizabeth! Charlie!”

Just barely, he managed to scramble to his feet, heart now pounding high in his throat. His head hurt, and nothing made sense. It all felt like a horrible dream. The most terrible of nightmares. As he managed to get up, his eyes darted to the stairs, only now noticing the hunched figure in the corner of his eyes. Like a shadow. A figure you’d be terrified to see in the middle of the night, only to find out it was a pile of clothes. But it wasn’t.

Her curls fell through the gaps in the guardrail, the blood trickling down the steps and onto the floor. Elizabeth. She lay there, crumbled on the steps, looking so small, so vulnerable. Curled in on herself, one hand still on the step above her head. She had tried to run, to escape. No . . . no, she was fine.

They just needed to get help.

William forced himself to follow the sound, to find whoever was left. His mind was in scrambles, clinging to whatever it could get its fragile grip on. A sense of safety, when there was none. All of this would turn out fine. It had to.

As he rushed into the hallway that led to the master bedroom, William almost collided with the figure before him. Shorter than him, but larger in every other regard. With a dark crown of hair, a thick fluffy beard, and the light from the living room reflected on his thick-rimmed glasses . . . Henry.

“Henry,” a breath of relief fell from William’s lips, almost reaching out to hug him. Henry was there. Henry was fine, unharmed — “Thank god you’re alright . . .” — then where did all that blood come from? William’s eyes searched all over, there were no gashes, no cuts . . .

Wait, what?

Then he saw the glimmer of light on metal, grasped in Henry’s palm, and the relief was quickly squandered under the heel of his shoe. The knife, and then, the body limp on the floor behind him.

The darkness in the hallway didn’t help him in the slightest, but he knew who that had to be. Charlotte. She was the only one left. The only one still missing. And it all just sunk in, the horror of it all. The sick and twisted painting of blood and gore. Of Henry’s design.

“What have you done?” Words slipped out before his brain could even wrap around the meaning behind it.

Henry was behind this.

“Let’s go see her.”

The words, even when William couldn’t find a meaning to them yet, sent a shiver down his spine. He was shaking now, lips and hands trembling with fear, with pain, with a nasty concoction of emotions that had yet to fully process. “What?” he breathed, before coughs quickly followed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Daniella,” Henry replied, and his lips curled up. A smile. Why? Why are you smiling right now? “It’s time to go see her. She’s been waiting for so long, Will! We have to go see her. Be with her.”

It hurt. Something inside of William’s chest hurt. Was it his heart? His lungs? His tightening airways? Something hurt, and William couldn’t help but clutch at his chest, doubling over. The knife was close, too close, and so he stepped back, desperate to compose himself. “No, no . . . this can’t be happening.”

“It’s okay!” Henry said, and his voice was so full of conviction. Like it really was okay. It wasn’t, was it? No, no. None of this was okay. “This was meant to happen. This is all a part of God’s plan! We’re meant to die together, remember? We promised. You promised.”

William shook his head, no — yes — no. Not like this. When they were old and gray, ready to go. William wasn’t ready to go! “No. No, we can’t.”

“Yes, we can.” Henry held out his hand, dripping with blood that wasn’t his to shed. “I’ll make it quick, I promise. It won’t hurt a bit. It didn’t hurt for them at all.”

For a moment, he considered it. His fragile, naive heart. So full of love, still. He wanted to go with Henry, he did. But not like this. Not when his hands were covered in blood. And he didn’t want his own to be added on top. So with every hesitant step he took away from Henry, and each one Henry took toward him, he was closer to safety.

Something, anything, he needed as a weapon.

William reached for the coat rack, sending it flying Henry’s way. It hit him, though not with as much force as William had hoped. “Fuck, Henry! Let’s talk about this. We can fix this. I can fix this!”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Henry recovered quickly, clutching at his arm where he had taken most of the blow. “There’s nothing to fix. Please, Will . . . don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be. Let’s go. Together.”

The vacant look in his eyes told William one thing, and one thing only: Henry was too far gone, wasn’t he? There was nothing William could do or say to fix Henry. Still, even then, he couldn’t just give up that easily. He couldn’t just abandon his friend when he needed him.

When William still needed him.

And so a quick plan formed in his mind. He would find a way to subdue Henry, even if that meant knocking him out. Then, he’d call an ambulance, and save everyone. In the end, they could surely bargain with the law and have him sent to a psych ward instead. Then he’d be out in a few years. Then everything could go back to normal.

Couldn’t it?

William found his ankle hitting against one of the fallen stools, and frantically, he pulled it up. This time, he wasn’t gonna throw it, but use it as a weapon. That would surely be more effective.

As Henry approached, brandishing the knife, William tried to knock it out of his hand. Again and again, he swung the stool in Henry’s direction. It took one nasty hit on his head for something to snap in Henry’s gaze.

In one fell swoop, Henry grabbed the stool on William’s next swing, yanking the stool out of his grip, though he kept holding on tightly. Desperately. The next thing William felt was Henry’s knee connecting with his solar plexus, the air instantly blown out of his lungs, and pain shooting through his nerves like sparks of electricity.

Breathless, William stumbled, his back hitting the kitchen island. He had to force his gaze away from the still-unmoving forms on the floor, right by his feet.

It was enough of a distraction, though, that and the coughing and gasping that he resorted to in order to get some air into himself. Not that it was working. Either way, from the corner of his blurred vision, William saw Henry charging toward him, the knife swinging through the air.

This was it, he thought. He felt the knife slicing into his neck as he ducked away, cutting through the skin, and surely, some important vein that would have him bleeding out within minutes. Seconds. Clara would’ve known which.

Reflexively, William’s hand flew up to clutch at his neck, to stem the bleeding, like Clara had taught him. It was then that he realized there wasn’t nearly as much blood as he had expected, nor was it filling his throat and suffocating him even more than he already was. Still, it hurt like hell. Like a paper cut, times a thousand. No, a million.

The cut pounded, but there was no time to focus on that, because Henry was swinging his knife again. Just in time, William ducked away, scrambling against the floor. His hands were slippery with blood, both his own, and what was all over the floor. As Henry swung once again, slipping in the blood. William dodged just in time, the knife lodging into the wooden floor. For a split second, their eyes locked, and William was, for once, quicker to launch towards it.

A struggle ensued, and Henry was quickly overpowering him. Henry, with his larger hands, and his stronger build. William would have to play foul. It was not just for his own sake, but also Henry’s, wasn’t it? They could salvage this. But not if William died.

“I’m sorry,” He breathed out, and quickly, William’s foot shot forward, connecting with Henry’s crotch.

Instantly, Henry doubled over, grunting and clutching at the area struck. It made William’s entire body ache, especially his brittle heart, seeing his best friend in such pain. It had to be done, he told himself.

Quick as he could, William scrambled up to his feet, making for the door he’d come in through. If he couldn’t subdue Henry, he’d just have to call the cops. They would know how to handle it, surely. Either way, he had to get out of there before things got worse. He was covered in blood, seeping from his neck, soaking into his shirt. But also from the floor — Clara’s blood, Garrett’s blood — it made him feel dizzy. Or maybe that was due to the blood loss.

Before William could even get a single foot away, he felt something yank him back by the collar of his suit’s jacket. And then all he saw were stars, tumbling to the floor, his face and head aching all over. He barely caught himself by the edge of the counter, knife clattering to the floor and gliding away from them both.

“Give up, William! Let’s go! She’s waiting for us!” The manic words barely reached him through the ringing in his ears. “Please! Let’s just go! I’m begging you. You’re my best friend!”

The room was spinning around him, and William felt tiny dots of blood trickle from the new cuts on his face and his nose. Tiny little nicks in his skin, and William quickly realized the culprit was a now broken plate, its remnants scattered all over the floor and bits of dust on his jacket. “Stop it, Henry,” he barely managed to croak out, still fighting for every breath. “She wouldn’t want this.”

“You don’t know that!” Snapped Henry, approaching again, face contorted into an expression William had never seen on him before.

It had him stunned into silence. It was as if Henry was fading away from him with each drop of blood, with each slash of his knife and each blow dealt. This wasn’t his Henry, not anymore. This was a broken man wearing his face. No, but it was his Henry, too. In the way he still tried to be gentle, still tried to save him, in his own shattered, wrong way.

Henry was never this violent. Maybe he never would’ve been, if things had gone differently.

Just in time, William snapped out of it, making for the door. He didn’t get far, though, not with how unsteady he was on his feet and how close Henry already was.

The floor met him first, his head just barely missing the edge of the dryer. With Henry on top of him, William still tried to crawl away, kicking at him. “Stop this!” He pleaded, though he knew the words no longer reached his friend.

Henry’s hands were around his ankles, and in one go, William was pulled back toward him. It was relatively easy, considering he was still soaked in blood.

Right as William was about to fight back, Henry’s hand shot out. The air was cut off from him immediately, and with it, all the fight in William. Henry’s large hand, always so gentle as it cradled his face, wiped his tears, rubbed circles on his back — a tool of his love — was now wrapped around his throat. William had felt this before, this absolute inability to breathe. But never like this. Never at the hands of the person he loved, the person who loved him.

“It’s okay. I’m here, William. I’ll take you to her.”

William tried to fight. He clawed at his wrists, tried to pull them away. It seemed futile. Above him was Henry’s face, the desperation in his eyes, the tight set of his jaw, and William felt tears trickle from the corners of his eyes. Was this it? Was he going to die with Henry’s hands around his throat, his face the last thing he saw? Maybe he would be alright with that. At least, he wouldn’t die alone. He would die at the hands of his best friend, his warmth nearby.

At least William would be able to keep one of his promises.

“I promise,” Henry whispered, tears in his own eyes. “She must’ve been so alone — dying like that. She won’t be anymore.”

Just as William’s vision began to spot, hands lying limp beside him, they fixed on the cross dangling from Henry’s neck. It swung before him, back and forth, and then in circles. Like a pendulum, deciding his fate. He always hated the sight of it. Of crosses. It made his stomach tighten into a knot.

He couldn’t let that be the last thing he was reminded of. No, he couldn’t let any of this be the last. Not his last tear, not his last blink, not his last moment.

As his vision began to spot even more, his hand scrambled all over the floor, trying to find something. And he found it. The warm, clammy handle of the knife, soaked with blood. It must’ve slid over when he dropped it earlier.

William’s hand wrapped around it, clutching tightly. In one go, he drove it into Henry’s side, feeling his hands let go of his throat immediately. The feeling of piercing through someone’s skin was sickening, no less was the sound of it. When his vision returned and the ringing stopped, he could hear Henry’s agonized grunts, the knife still lodged in his side. Henry stumbled back in pain, eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” another apology just slipped from his lips, “I’m so sorry,” and then he kicked, hard. Right up into Henry’s stomach. He needed to get the man away from him, and it worked.

Too well.

Henry’s hand reached for him, despite the knife he’d driven into his side, despite the kick to his already wounded stomach. And foolishly, William almost reached out for him. He was too slow, and Henry fell too fast.

The next thing William registered were the sounds of thuds — multiple, yes — too many. Not just Henry falling to the ground, but falling down something. The stairs. The stairs to the basement. Not just thuds, but grunts, and a crack. A loud, sickening crack, and with it everything went silent.

All William could hear was the sound of his own ragged breaths, the ringing in his ears, the pounding of his heart. That was a symphony of its own.

Slowly, William pushed himself off of the floor, struggling to get to his feet. It took every ounce of strength left in him to trudge over to the edge of the steps, to see what was left of his friend. He tried to cling to hope, that maybe, just maybe, he was okay. All that hope was shattered when he saw the still figure at the bottom of the stairs. Or, well, where the first bit of stairs ended and turned.

Henry sat slumped against the wall, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, unmoving.

“Henry?” For a while, William just watched, not fully processing it yet. No, no. He was fine. He had to be.

William couldn’t have killed his best friend.

The house was silent. Too silent. Death was quietly brutal. It made William realize just how truly alone he was. He should’ve just let Henry go through with it. Let those warm, gentle hands strangle the life out of him. He should have been quicker. Should have grabbed Henry’s hand that had so desperately reached for him.

Even now, he was panting, scrambling for air. The coughs kept escaping him, and finally, it all just set in. The dust settled, the shock faded, and with it, adrenaline. Everything began to hurt, every dull ache that had been a thought at the back of his mind was now pounding away, and he could barely keep himself from retching.

Blood. It was everywhere. It coated his hands, his face, his soul. Not just his own, but Henry’s, Charlotte’s, Clara’s, Garrett’s, Michael’s, Elizabeth’s . . .

Without even thinking, William returned to the kitchen, where Garrett and Clara lay crumpled on the floor. But first came Elizabeth. He slowly pulled her from the steps, up into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Her curls were stained and soaked with blood, and her eyes were clenched shut with terror. It’d be alright. She’d be alright.

He carried her up the stairs, toward where she had desperately tried to go before she’d fallen asleep. All the way down the hallway, passing by Garrett’s room, and into her own. The walls were painted pink, decorated with butterflies, and a large quantity of posters. He reached her bed, canopy hanging above it. He could still remember hanging it up for her, how excited she’d been. A smile so contagious. A smile that warmed his heart whenever he saw it.

As he lay her down, he reached for the remote, turning the fairy lights in them on. Just the way she liked it. Then, William pulled the sheets over her, pressing a kiss onto her forehead, and wishing her goodnight.

Next was Michael. It was late, all past their bedtimes, just as Clara had said. It was time for them to go to bed, to get some rest before the sun rose again. It had been a while since William had carried little Mikey, but he would tonight. He would never stop being his father, after all, and Michael would never stop being his little boy. Forever and ever. Michael would always be his son.

Michael’s room was as messy as ever, not yet cleaned, though that would be tomorrow’s problem. They were all tired, weren’t they? Just needed a good nap. That was all. “Goodnight, buddy.” He pulled the sheets over him, brushed the dirty hair from his face, and trudged out again.

When he reached the kitchen, he untangled Garrett from Clara’s arms, lifting him up one last time. He didn’t throw him over his shoulder to get some giggles out of him. “I got you, little man.” He whispered, his voice sounding distant even when it came from his own throat. Numbly, he carried him up the stairs, into the tiniest bedroom in the house. He pulled back the dino bedsheets with his free hand, and gingerly lay him down on the mattress.

Another kiss, another goodnight’s wish. And then he returned to Clara. Just as before, he lay her down in their bed and wished her goodnight, promising to join her later. He finally returned to the living room once more. Henry and Charlotte had slipped from his mind, the blood dripping from his hands and onto the floor.

Join her.

Join them.

The thought came by itself. Uninvited, unwanted. Still, it came. And it lingered. Becoming louder and louder with each cough that left him, with each ragged breath he took, with each passing second.

They had a gun. Locked up in a safe, away from all kids. It was for safety, a worst-case scenario. William never liked it, but Clara had wanted it at the time. There was no quicker way out than that, was there? Nothing less painful. And nothing more certain to kill him.

And the thought became louder and louder. The thought became an idea, a suggestion, and then, a task.

GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN. GET THE GUN.

“Mr. Afton?”

The voice snapped William out of his spiraling thoughts. His eyes focused again, and he saw Jeremiah standing there in the kitchen, eyes wide. They darted all over, taking in the scene before him. Blood. Everywhere. On every floor, on every wall, on every piece of furniture, and on every surface. And then his eyes trailed to the hallway, where Charlotte still lay.

“No,” in an instant, William shot forward, pulling Jeremiah away. Away from the bloodshed, from the horror that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He couldn’t let that happen. “Don’t look.”

All thoughts of the atrocity he had seen and endured himself faded to the back of his mind. All he could think of was protecting Jeremiah. Taking him away from the sight of his best friend’s phone covered in blood. Of the gruesome reality William had yet to accept.

“What happened?” Jeremiah croaked out, and William wasn’t even sure himself. “M-Michael called — we were texting for a bit and then he went quiet — I-I didn’t pick up but he left a voicemail. He was . . . it sounded like he was in pain, he was crying out for you. I tried to call you, but you didn’t pick up . . . so I called the police. I didn’t know what else to do! I’m so sorry . . . is he okay? Is Michael okay?”

Michael . . .

The unknown number. “I . . . I didn’t know it was you.” Breathed William, and he realized only now, that he was wheezing instead. With shaking hands, he led the boy outside. Into safety. Jeremiah’s eyes looked at him with uncertainty and guilt. A misplaced guilt. William grasped his shoulder, trying to reassure him. “No . . . no, you did the right thing . . . you did . . .”

And then his words set in. A punch to the gut. A knee to the solar plexus. A knife to his throat. Hands around his neck.

Michael had been crying out for him . . .

It wasn’t instant. It was a slow, agonizing death, and he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. When his son needed him. Wasn’t there to keep his promises. “Mr. Afton, you’re bleeding!”

That wasn’t the only thing he was. The moment the fresh air filled his lungs, he doubled over. A mix of copper and bile spewed out of his throat, and he crashed onto the stone pathway. The rocks ate at the knees of his pants, tearing holes. But that would never compare to the absolute crater in his heart.

They were dead. All of them.

The realization was beginning to sink in, the fog of delusion fading from his brain. He could only trick himself for so long, and time had run out. They were gone. Truly gone. Not off to bed, to wake up when the sun rose, but forever.

They would never wake again.

Was he still a father?

Jeremiah’s voice became a distant noise, overpowered by his dry heaving, his coughing, and then, his screams. Doubled over on the ground, head pressed against the gravel pathway. He could slam his fist down onto his chest all he wanted, but it wasn’t going to bring them back. Still, even then, he couldn’t stop it. The agonized sobs kept escaping him, even as he felt hands pressed onto his back, trying to wrench him up.

Tears streamed over his skin, mixing with blood, with sweat, and more of his own tears.

Inside his chest, his heart shattered. Not in two, not in three, but into a million tiny pieces. So tiny, so fragile, that it can never be repaired. Not even with all the glue in the world.

William’s throat went dry, and his voice died in his chest. He didn’t move, yet neither did he fight back against the firm hands and arms pulling him to his feet. He had no strength left in any muscle or any bone. Every fight he had left in him was gone, drained like the light from their eyes. The gash on his neck was no more than a distant ache, and even if every breath he took hurt, it didn’t matter anymore. He could see the flickering lights of the sirens, the uniformed officers rushing in and out of his home. Their home.

The ambulance came into view, a blurry mess of lights and colors through the tears that continued to teeter on the edge of his eyes, seconds away from falling. Just like he was. Or perhaps he’d already fallen, just not physically.

Soon, he’d join them, wouldn’t he?

What was he supposed to do without them?

Just as he sat down, paramedics rushing to wrap gauze around his injured neck, a shout came out. And another, then another and another, until it even pierced through the ringing in William’s ears. Through the daze. Through the mind-numbing agony of fresh grief.

“She’s alive!”

It felt like an electric current had shot through William. A bucket of ice-cold water splashed into his face. Suddenly, instantly, he felt wide awake. Who was alive? Clara? Elizabeth? No . . . no, they were most certainly gone. He had seen the glassy look in her eyes, and Elizabeth was too limp in his arms — her chest wouldn’t rise with her breaths anymore. Even if he hadn’t accepted it, he’d seen it.

Then . . .

Before William could think of the name, the paramedics rushed out of the home, a tiny girl on a stretcher, her brown curls falling from the side. Like a leaf in the wind, her hair fluttered with every movement, every shake of the stretcher. Brown curls, not quite like Henry’s, but Daniella’s.

Charlotte.

“Charlotte!” William shot forward, the orange blanket he hadn’t even registered falling from his shoulders. His entire body complained, protested, even, but that wouldn’t stop him. Nothing could stop him from salvaging what was left of his family. “I’m going with her,” he rasped out, even if he knew nobody could hear him, not until he got to her. “I’m going with her.” He repeated, this time in range for them to hear.

Glances were exchanged, though no time was to be wasted. William no longer paid them any mind, his attention going to the tiny girl on the large stretcher. Covered in blood and tears. Not even the whirring of the engine or the bursting sound of sirens could’ve taken his mind away from her for even a second.

For a moment, Charlotte’s eyes peeled open, and they searched every inch of the ambulance in a frenzy. Probably for her father.

Until they found William’s face.

Underneath the oxygen mask, her lips opened to speak. William got closer, clutching her hand tight in both of his own. “I’m here, Charlie,” he whispered. He reached out to brush the hair from her face, and the blood from her forehead. If only he could wipe the horrors from her brain. “I’m right here. You’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

William hated making false promises.