Page 23 of Almost Ravaged

He’s sleeping. Just sleeping. That’s what I tell myself. If I don’t, I don’t think I can leave.

Once I’m over the threshold, I pause.

Tytus doesn’t want me in there, and I don’t want to see what he’s about to do. And yet…

I take one step to the left and press my back to the wall, my breaths coming in short pants. Directly across from me is a picture of all five of us, taken at a local park.

The photographer has taken our family pictures for years. She was sweet. Patient and kind. She didn’t bat an eye when one year, our family of four became a family of five, and my dad introduced Tytus as his son.

A shudder rolls through me.

Seconds tick by.

I wait, and I focus on our smiling faces. We’re eleven or twelve in this portrait, I think. My hair is done up in a fancy braid. Atty has braces and Ty’s hands are shoved deep in his pockets. My parents aren’t looking at the camera. They’re looking at each other.

Instinctively, I reach out.

I want to take the photo off the wall. I want to take it out of this house, away from this place.

My fingers are an inch from the edge of the frame when I remember I can’t.

I recoil, pain lancing my chest.

I can’t just yank a framed photo off the wall.

No one can know we were here.

I rest my head back, worrying my bottom lip.

Inside the study, Ty’s dad rambles on, his words unintelligible. I hold my breath, bracing myself for the gunshot.

It doesn’t come.

I’m lightheaded by the time I let myself exhale.

The slurred voice gets louder, his threats clearer. Each one hits me in the solar plexus. I can’t imagine the damage they’re doing to Ty.

What’s taking so long?

Though my instincts are telling me not to look, my curiosity wins out.

With one hand splayed on the wall for support, I peek around the doorframe.

The sight sends another sharp pain through me.

Tytus stands in profile, holding the gun out with both hands, pointing it at his dad. Tears streak down his cheek and his whole body trembles.

And his dad? He’s no longer lying on the ground. He’s on his hands and knees. He’s trying to get up.

“Ty,” I whisper, my chest constricting.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even react, as if he doesn’t hear me. As if he’s transfixed, under some sort of spell.

“Tytus,” I try again, louder this time.

“Tytus,” his dad slurs mockingly.

Oh shit.