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Tristan waited.
Inhale.
Exhale.
In.
Out.
His father’s finger flexed.
In.
Out.
The finger started to pull.
Tristan whimpered, terrified.
And before he even understood, he pulled the trigger.
The force of the hit pushed Tristan down to the ground, the gun still gripped in his arms as the loud sound of the bullet broke through the hall, accompanied by curse words and screams, and the crying of the girl.
Oh god.
The sudden onslaught of noise became white as Tristan looked back at the table, only to see the little girl with splattered blood on her face.
Without a thought, his mind silent, completely silent, Tristan walked out into the fore, straight to the girl who was getting red in the face from her cries. Hands trembling, Tristan wiped the blood off her soft face, forgetting his own bleeding palm.
Instead of cleaning her skin, he marred it even more with his own blood.
His dad was going to punish him so badly for this.
Ready to apologize for hitting him, to accept whatever punishment he gave out, Tristan turned to the side.
His heart stopped.
No. No. No. No. No.
The gun dropped from his hand, clattering loudly in the suddenly silent hall.
Tristan shook his head.
No. No. No. No. No.
His father lay there on the floor, his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, his body motionless.
With a hole right in the center of his head.
The hole from a bullet.
Something lodged in his chest.
“You killed your own father?”
Tristan heard the Boss’ voice. He heard him ask, heard the words, but kept looking at his dad, denying it in his heart.
No. No. No. No. No.
