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HAYDEN: TEN Years Old

The heat hung heavy in the air, the kind that made your skin stick to your clothes no matter how hard you tried to escape it. I pedaled faster, the wheels of my old bike squeaking with every turn, my sneakers scraping the cracked sidewalk. The backpack thudded against my shoulders with every bump, the comics inside shifting, secondhand issues I’d read a hundred times already but never got tired of.

Superheroes never lost.

They never failed.

That was the kind of world I wanted to live in.

I turned the corner, my chest heaving from the ride, and there it was—home. The freshly painted blue porch railing stood out against the neatly trimmed lawn. The flower beds my mom loved lined the walkway, bursting with color. The old pickup truck my dad was rebuilding sat in the driveway, its hood popped open like it had been waiting all day for him to come out and finish tinkering with it.

But he hadn’t.

Something felt wrong, though I couldn’t name it. The air wasn’t just heavy, it was still. Quiet in a way it never was, like the world had stopped breathing.

I dropped my bike on the lawn, the chain rattling against the ground just as my mom’s car backed out of the driveway. Tires crunched over gravel, brake lights casting a red glow across the yard. For a second, I thought she’d stop—say something—but she didn’t. Just shifted into gear and pulled away without a glance.

“Dad?” I called, stepping through the screen door that squeaked like it always did.

Nothing.

The house was dark, but not the kind of dark that felt empty. The glow of the TV flickered in the living room, casting shadows on the walls, but the couch was empty. No dad sprawled out with a beer in his hand, laughing at something stupid on the screen.

I stepped carefully across the floor, my sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. My chest felt tight, but I didn’t know why.

“Dad?” I tried again, quieter this time.

The hallway stretched ahead, the door to my parent’s room cracked open just enough for me to see the shadow of his legs. My stomach turned as I got closer, that sick, heavy quiet growing louder in my ears.

The door creaked as I pushed it open.

And everything stopped.

My dad was slumped against the wall by the bed, a shotgun lying on the floor, his head tilted in a way it shouldn’t have been. Blood pooled around him, dark and sticky, soaking into the cracks between the floorboards. It smelled sharp and metallic, like a punch in the face that knocked the wind out of me.

“Dad!” I screamed, the word tearing through my throat, raw and desperate.

I dropped to my knees, my hands outstretched like they might do something— anything —but I couldn’t make myself touch him. I froze, my fingers hovering in the air, because if I touched him, it would be real.

I didn’t want it to be real.

The room blurred around me, but my eyes stayed locked on the spinning toy lying just inches from his hand. The stupid toy he used to play with while telling me stories, about endless roads, loud engines, and sunsets that made everything feel bigger than life.

I reached for the toy, my hand shaking as I picked it up. I held onto it so tightly the edges dug into my palm, the pain grounding me, keeping me from falling apart.

I didn’t cry. I wanted to, but the tears wouldn’t come. All I felt was fire. It started small, burning in the center of my chest, and then it spread, hot and uncontrollable, swallowing me whole.

I sat there for hours, clutching that spinning top like it was the only thing left of him.

The house stayed quiet. The world outside kept moving like nothing had happened, until someone—probably Mrs. Heller next door—finally realized something was wrong and called the cops.

The next thing I knew, flashing lights filled the street. Voices I didn’t recognize sounded through the house, but I didn’t move. I just stayed there, on my knees, the spinning toy in my hand.

That was the day I learned something no kid should ever have to know.

The heroes in my comics didn’t exist.

No one was coming to save me.

And I’d never be the same again.