I felt, but didnt see, the shot. Just the feel of the recoil going up my arm like a sucker punch. I smelled the hot chemical stink of the burning powder, the planet-cracking BANG of the report, and the dull thump a microsecond later. I felt the hot flash of heat and light on my closed eyelids, tasted that chemical reek in my open mouth – it mingled with the stench of rotting flesh and weeks without brushing.

The silence was like a heavy, fuzzy cloak as it fell. I kept my eyes shut, hands still white-knuckle tight on the gun, ears perked for even the tinyest of sounds. I wasn’t sure which I wanted to hear more – a moan or a thud.

I got the thud, though it had more of a squelch to it, as ripe flesh met hardwood.

It was only then that I opened my eyes. Opened them to the haze of gunsmoke amidst the shadows. The silhouettes of the room; its furniture, the paintings, the old, broken TV, and the corpses.

I breathed it all in, with all five senses – and gagged.

I had killed my family.

Again.