George let out a low laugh, though his hand trembled ever so slightly on the knife pressed to Aisha's neck. "Cheap talk. Just 'cause you got lucky once, you think you can take me on?"
"Try me." Mickey stepped forward.
"Mickey, please..." Aisha sobbed. "Just take—"
"I got this, Mom," Mickey cut her off. "These two are just a couple of clowns."
Paul watched his brother in silence. He couldn't recall Micky ever acting this way.
But it doesn't matter. He's just a kid. He can't beat them.
"What, you scared of some punk twelve-year-old?" Mickey taunted, tilting his head with a mocking smirk. "Or do you just know how to cheap shot?
The veins in George's neck throbbed with rage. He shoved Aisha aside, sending her sprawling. His gaze moved past Mickey. Aldo was still groaning.
"Come on, kid," George hissed, dropping into a fighting stance. "Let's see what you got."
Mickey's smirk didn't waver. He took two steps back, locked eyes with George, and then he moved.
He tossed the bent spoon. George shifted his weight, eyes tracking the flying metal for a split second. Just long enough for Mickey to vanish from his sight.
"Where'd he—"
George's head snapped left. Not here. He turned left. Mickey had already used the dining table as a springboard. He launched himself, his small frame flying through the dim light. George raised his arms to block, but Mickey's kick landed first. A precise, brutal strike to the side of the neck.
The impact sent George stumbling back. Before he could recover, Mickey was on him again, driving a knee into his chin. George's head snapped back, vision swimming.
Mickey snatched the knife from George's weakening grip. His gaze snapped to the back of the room, Aldo was still down. He turned back to George and plunged the knife toward the killer's eye.
George caught the kid's wrist just in time, the tip of the blade stopping inches from his pupil.
Paul watched in stunned silence. That move... the misdirection, using the environment...
It was mine.
Aisha scrambled to her feet, rushing to help her son. She believed he could win.
The knife was moving back. Mickey was losing the strength contest, but his lips curled into a smile. "I told you... you will—"
BANG. BANG.
Two shots ripped through the doorway.
The first bullet hit Aisha. She dropped instantly, the light leaving her eyes before she even hit the floor. The second bullet buried itself in Mickey's abdomen.
George snarled, using the moment to shove Mickey back. He grabbed the knife and plunged it deep into the boy's chest.
Mickey stumbled backward, a thick trail of blood trickling from his mouth. He glanced down at the hilt sticking out of his heart, then at his mother lying still beside the table. His vision blurred, the world tilting as he fell.
But he didn't hit the floor.
Paul caught him. All memories crashed together, allowing the ghost to hold the dying boy. Paul's whole body began to shake, tears streamed down his face and landed on Mickey's pale cheeks.
"So... you made it..." Mickey's words were barely a whisper.
Paul shook his head. "I didn't... I didn't want to be left alive. I wanted... I wanted to..."
Mickey's hand reached up, fingers trembling as they brushed through Paul's hair. "I know... what you want. You're my little brother, Paul Vaxlar."
"That's all for tonight."
Paul looked up, tears blurring his vision.
"But…but big brother," Paul choked out, clutching Mickey tighter.
"He's already dead," the kid stated flatly.
"No, he—" Paul's words were cut short. The weight in his arms had shifted. Mickey had stopped breathing altogether.
Paul sat there for what felt like an eternity, then gently laid Mickey on the floor. He reached out and closed his brother's eyes. Standing up, his gaze drifted across the wreckage of his life.
His mother lay lifeless beside the table. His father was a slumped-over shadow by the door. Aldo was gone. George was gone. They had vanished into the blue haze as if they never existed.
No answers of where the two bullets came from.
Paul forced his legs to move, trudging toward the kid in the hallway. He stood in front of the kid, his body still shaking.
The kid reached out, his small hand icy cold against Paul's skin. "It'll be alright. You're strong,"
Paul recoiled instinctively, snatching his hand back. The touch offered no comfort.
The kid gave a flat smile and turned toward the door behind him. Mickey's bedroom.
"Open the door," the kid commanded.
"What? Why?"
"Don't you wanna know what happened after?"
Paul swallowed. I do.
His hand hovered over the knob, trembling. Then, he yanked his hand away. "I know what's after this. I lived it.
"Oh, do you?" The kid tilted his head. "You know why you're still breathing?"
Paul looked into the kid's eyes. He saw clearly now. There were no eyes. The sockets were dark, infinite pits of nothingness.
"I know," Paul whispered.
The kid scoffed. "Then why are you here?"
Paul had no answer.
"I know why you're here." The kid stepped behind Paul. He gave Paul a gentle, insistent nudge toward the wood.
"It's because you want to know. Now go. See."
Paul stared at the door. Mickey's room. "I want to know."
"Yeah, everyone wants to know," the kid whispered in his ear.
"What's inside the room?
"You don't know until you step inside."
Paul's fingers finally brushed against the cold metal of the knob. He started to turn it. Then a hand slammed down onto his wrist, locking it in place.
"Show's over."
Paul's head snapped toward the voice. Standing there was a figure in an all-black tactical outfit, their face…
"What are you doing here?" The kid stepped back, his brows twitching in irritation.
"Is that even a question? I'm sending him back where he belongs." The figure leaned closer to Paul. "Isn't that right, partner?"
The kid shoved the figure's hand away. "He's not going anywhere," the kid spat. Then, his tone smoothed out into a calm. "Don't you want to see what's inside?"
Paul looked from the empty-eyed child to the faceless figure. "I... I—"
"He doesn't want to," the Figure cut in. "Now, let's get you home, buddy."
"This is home," Paul said faintly.
"What? This place ain't home," the Figure growled. "This place is a freakin' graveyard. Your home is clean and peaceful. I know it is."
"Keep your hands off him." The kid stepped between them. "If he doesn't wanna go, then he doesn't have to."
"Oh, save your petty words." The Figure looked at Paul. "They're already dead. There's nothing you can do. And let me make one thing crystal clear…" He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "This little brat you see here? He ain't you. Stop wasting time and head back."
"That's enough!" the kid roared.
"You're not me?" Paul asked.
"Of course I'm you. And this is June 12th, 2014. This is your home." The kid grabbed Paul's hand again. "Don't you remember it?"
Paul stared into the kid's empty sockets. Then he glanced at the door to Mickey's room. He could feel the lie hanging in the air. He shoved the kid's hand back.
"You're lying"
"Lying? Me?" The kid looked confused.
"What's in the room?" Paul demanded.
"See for yourself."
"You're not gonna tell me, are you?"
"It's better if you see with your own eyes."
"That's fucking enough." The figure snatched Paul's wrist, yanking him into the black void.
"I'm the one you're chasing."
Paul heard the kid's voice as he was pulled away into the void.
"And I'll be the one who decides the chase."
Paul landed in a pitch-black space. He looked all around. Nothing. Just emptiness. A chill started creeping into his body.
"I want to know what's inside the room."
"I want to know what's inside."
"What's he hiding?"
"What everyone wants to know."
"I want to know."
"I want to know."
"I want to know."
"I want to…"
He felt warmth around him. It was soft and subtle.
"Yeah, I hear you loud and clear."
He looked up. Trees. Walls. Playground. Noise flooded his ears. He was hugging someone tight. And someone was hugging him back.
"I'll help you find out whatever you wanna know."
Paul's gaze drifted down. Long black hair. Female. Girl.
"Mia."
He pulled away.
"Are you okay now?" Mia asked, her voice laced with worry.