it echoes through

two; foreboding

Tom wanted to scream, he wanted to react, he wanted to do something other than gap at his phone–but he couldn't. A cold rush tingled through you as you looked at him; he was frozen. No thoughts running through his head. Or maybe they were too many and rushing too fast, he couldn't quite make them out. How did Harry get caught in Liverpool, and who found the drugs and how, and what was trafficking and why would they pin that on him, and how and why wasn't he smart enough to escape them and why didn't he know any of this and who was causing this and why and–

"Tom," you tried, because you could feel his heart racing and you could see his eyes bulging but he didn't say a word. Nothing at all.

"Tom, get dressed," you tried, throwing him back his boxers and a pair of sweats, "let's go downstairs and talk this out."

Like a ghost, he moved, like a vision that wasn't there, like smoke from a fire you couldn't even see–putting on his clothes while his eyes shadowed over completely. Then he sat there, with his hands on his thighs and his breath ragged, and all you could feel was a pinch in your heart, almost like fear. But it was mixed with something else, and although you weren't the best with feelings–anyone could tell that–you knew enough to know when Tom regretted something. And whether it was the situation completely or the fact he didn't stop it before it happened, you weren't sure. Tom was petrified of it either way. He just sat there on the bed, silent and unresponsive to anything you said. You tried getting him to move, to come downstairs, but he didn't. He kept playing with his ring, causing the metal to tingle against your skin. You weren't even sure if he heard you when you asked him to look at you, until three gunshots banged through the house, causing Tom to leap upwards–grab his golden gun from the nightstand–and run out of the bedroom.

You gathered your shirt and grabbed your spare knuckler from the table at the edge of the bed, and ran after him–chest heaving, tingling in fear.

The living room managed to turn into complete chaos. You realised the smash sound you heard earlier, the one that was dismissed in your mind as a glass slipping off a counter, was Harrison's ashtray. It appeared someone flipped the red coffee table over. And when you looked around, you saw Harrison in the garden, with his hands up in front of Sam. He looked distraught, almost deranged, with his gun pointed right at his brother's face.

"Sam!" You called as you stepped outside, and saw three bullet holes carved into the bench you once sat on with Tom–what felt like a decade ago.

"You stay the fuck away from us! This has nothing to do with you!" Sam called at you, even pointing his gun your way for a few seconds, before bringing it back in between Tom's brown eyes.

You looked over at Tom in fear, but his gaze was glued strictly to Sam, and what you could now spot were tears on his face. You then tried catching Harrison's eyes, but he too was immersed by the mobster in front of him–now completely overtaken by his sadness.

"You locked our brother up!" He yelled at Tom, causing him to step backwards as Sam cocked his gun.

"Sam," Harrison started, his tone strong and almost fearless, "this isn't the first time Harry's been locked up, and knowing this family, it won't be the last. We'll get him out of it," he promised, and you could tell he meant it. You weren't sure why, but you could practically feel the confidence in his words.

"We won't be able to get him out, because Tom's the fucker who put him there!" Sam huffed, the colour changing on his face. He was as red as the table now shattered on the floor behind you.

"Sam, that's not true and you know it," you tried defending, taking a step back as Sam turned to you fully, his gun in tow.

"Oh? Ask him then," Sam dared you. You rolled your eyes at him, but decided to indulge him nonetheless.