Murderer
Warning: dark and mature content. Themes of trauma and violence.

The moment was brief. Unintentional.

When the choice is not kill or be killed,
but defend or die,
there is no room left for innocence.

Anthony learned early how to endure pain.

Day after day, he took the beatings so his younger brother wouldn’t have to. By nine, he had grown used to it—the fractures, the bruises, the blood. As long as his brother was spared, Anthony could sit and take it.

Their father died when Anthony was four. He remembered little—only fragments. Their mother tried to cope at first, but grief hollowed her out. The anger meant for the world settled instead on her sons.

She wasn’t always like this.

Once, she had been kind.

Anthony endured so his brother could still love her. So he could still see that version of her.

Then the world ended.

At noon on an unremarkable Tuesday, everyone gained powers—and the world saw its bloodiest day. People liked to imagine governments would help, that heroes would rise, especially early on. Reality betrayed those hopes quickly.

There were no superheroes, no one to look to, no safety.
Only survivors.

-

Anthony was eating lunch when a boy at the end of the table caught fire. Another student began to glow—pulse—until she exploded, taking multiple classmates and a teacher with her. Outside, houses froze solid, buildings burned, people turned to stone. The air filled with blood, vomit, bile, and smoke.

By 12:10, more than a fourth of the world was gone.
By 12:30, Anthony was running home.

The only thing that kept him moving was his brother.

There. The white door.
The spare key under the flowerpot.

Inside, the house looked torn apart; broken vases, torn up walls. Then he heard it—his brother screaming, a weak sound that carried the last of his breath.

Anthony ran to the kitchen.

His brother lay bleeding, begging. Their mother stood over him in a stained pink nightgown, a kitchen knife in her hand. Her long dark hair was greasy, and her shoulders slouched and heaved with her heavy breath. 

“Mom?”

Anthony grabbed his brother, sobbing. For a moment, she seemed calm.

“Why aren’t you in school?” she asked, catching her breath.

Anthony didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Irritated, she grabbed him by his yellow school shirt. Only then did Anthony look at her face. For years, he’d avoided it—afraid he’d see a monster wearing his mother’s skin.

He was wrong. 

She was crying.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We can’t survive this.”

She raised the knife.

Anthony screamed and pushed her away. She slipped in the blood, fell backward, struck her head—and impaled herself.

The kitchen became a grave.

Anthony, horrified by the sight, threw up and passed out.

He dreamed of a picnic by a lake. His mother held both boys close. They were warm, happy. She was smiling.

Then he woke.

Flies buzzed nearby, but it didn’t bother him. He pulled his brother close and hugged him one last time.

He squeezed his mothers gown, crying into it for longer than time seemed to matter.

“I’m sorry. I love you.”

When the tears finally ran dry, so did everything else. The boy who lived before was lost, and what remained was only someone who could survive. 

Anthony stood up, walked out the door,
and kept going.