I woke to the sound of a gunshot. It wasnt unusual to hear the sound of people shooting eachother, but this sounded close. It sounded like it came from inside the house. I grabbed the knife I kept under my pillow, and made my way to my door. The floorboards creaked, sounding louder than the gunshot in the silence that followed it. I pulled my door open, it creaked on the rusted hinges. I could feel my hands sweating, beading down my fingers to drip onto the floor. The house was too quiet for someone to still be inside, so I started walking faster towards my dads room. "Dad?" I called towards his room "Dad I think someone's in the house." I for no answer, so i opened his door. I knew something was wrong, he always answers when I call. But as soon as i saw his white walls stained with the red and pink of his brain, I knew I was alone. He put the revolver he gave me on my 15th birthday into his mouth and pulled the trigger. I want to say that i handled it like a normal person, I cried and begged and told him to come back to me. But that's not how it happened. I didn't scream, I didn't cry, and I didn't beg. I grabbed my gun, my ammo, my knives and my food. Then I left. I started walking and didn't look back. I left my soul behind in that house. I guess that in a manner of speaking, I died in that house along with my dad.
