Shattered Hearts

1

I was sitting in my room, staring at the same cracked ceiling, letting the same dull ache spread through my chest like it always did. Mom's voice cut through the house like a blade, sharp and demanding. "Maci! Get down here, now."

I didn't ask where we were going. I never asked. Instead, I grabbed my hoodie, the fabric worn thin from years of pulling it around me like armor, and followed her out to the car. The sun was already too bright, its heat clinging to my skin, making me sweat before I even got into the passenger seat. Mom's fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles pale against the dark leather, as she navigated the streets. The city passed by in blurs of concrete and graffiti, the buildings familiar and yet distant, like something I could never fully reach.

She didn't speak, her silence heavy in the air between us. But I could feel it—the tension, the way her lips pressed into a tight line, the restless way she tapped her thumb on the wheel. I knew this wasn't just another errand. I could feel it in my bones, in the pit of my stomach where anxiety churned quietly.

"Mom, where are we going?"

"I have some business to do, then we can go to Fiona's for dinner. Sound okay?"

We pulled up to a house I'd never seen before. It looked like it had been left to rot, its peeling paint and broken windows a testament to years of neglect. Weeds grew tall, wild and untamed, swallowing the front yard like a slow invasion. A couple of rusted cars sat in the driveway, their windows covered in grime.

Mom got out without a word, and I followed, trying to keep my head down, trying to make myself small. Inside, the air was thick, sticky with the smell of cigarettes and something else—something chemical, harsh. The house was dim, shadows clinging to the corners as though afraid to move. There were men scattered around, all eyes shifting toward us, lingering a little too long. I kept my gaze on the floor, focusing on the creak of my shoes against the warped wood.

"Stay here," Mom muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes flicked toward me, but there was no softness in them. Just that cold, businesslike edge she always wore when she was dealing. She disappeared into the next room, and I leaned back against the peeling wallpaper, trying to blend in, trying to pretend I didn't exist.

The voices inside were low at first, just murmurs. But soon, they grew louder, sharper. I edged closer to the doorframe, just enough to peek inside without being noticed.

Mom was standing by a table, her arms crossed, her face set in stone. Across from her was a man—tall, thin, with a hoodie pulled over his greasy hair. He was waving his arms, angry, his movements jerky like he couldn't quite control them. I caught snippets of their conversation, words like "money" and "deal," and my stomach tightened. This wasn't a regular pick-up. This was something more.

The man slammed a wad of cash onto the table, crumpled bills spilling everywhere. The room went still, the kind of stillness that suffocates. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat, the blood pounding in my ears.

"Where's the rest?" The guy in the hoodie snarled, his voice shaking with barely-contained rage. He reached into his waistband, and my breath caught in my chest. "You think you can rob me? I wasn't born yesterday, Tanya. Give me the money or I'll take your daughter for compensation."

I didn't have time to react, didn't even have time to process what was happening. There was a flash of metal, and then a gun was in his hand, pointing across the room at my mom.

My mom was ready, already pointing a gun at him.

The gunshot was deafening.

It wasn't like in the movies, where everything slows down. It happened fast, brutally fast. One second the guy was standing, the next he was crumpled on the floor, blood spreading out in a dark pool beneath him. The metallic tang of it filled the air, mixing with the smoke and sweat, and I could taste it in the back of my throat, thick and coppery.