I ran all the way.

My fight had taken me a little far from our home, and it was a thirty minutes walk to get there. But it didn’t matter.

I needed to get home as fast as possible.

On my way there, I saw hell.

There was a girl crying on the sidewalk, holding a guy with a knife on his eye.

Besides her, a man was running in circles, screaming. He was covered in blood. On his left, there was a human with a cracked skull.

Everywhere, there were bodies. And besides the bodies, there was madness.

I couldn’t face it. So I only ran faster.

Some houses were burning, so I was glad when I finally got home and saw that ours was fine.

I entered fast, calling for my siblings.

No one answered.

I started panicking, yelling louder, and running to their bedroom.

Please, I thought. Please, let them be alright.

I found them both there, on the floor.

My brother was crying, hugging his legs.

My sister was quiet, laying on her back.

Oh, God.

I stopped moving, petrified.

Oh, God. Why?

My father’s dad of the year trophy, the one I gave to him when I was seven and he kept for all those years was besides my sister, splattered with her brains.

Why did that happen?

That was too much. I was barely coping with what had been happening.

I had no idea what to do now. I couldn’t control it.

I was overwhelmed by fury and despair.

“HOW COULD YOU HAVE DONE IT?” I screamed at my brother. Before I knew it, I was on my feet, and my hands were forcing his throat. I hit his back against the wall, dropping some furniture on the floor.

I couldn’t care less.

I kept pressing him putting more and more pressure. Then I realized what I was doing.

I was killing my brother.

When had that happened?

Would I do it? Could I do it?

My brother was trying to get free, desperately.

But his struggles weren’t helping him.

I was too strong for him.

He started losing his strength. He gave up trying to get out, and looked at me with resigned eyes. Somehow, he managed to whisper:

“I’m so sorry. I just didn’t want to die.”

And that broke me.

I let go of him and fell on my knees, crying. My brother fell too, barely conscious.

Why did that have to happen?

“Brother…” he said trying to reach for me.

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME” I screamed and at that moment I almost attacked him again. He flinched in fear and stayed back.

How could he have done it? Our little sister.

I looked at her again. Her nose had been broken and her head had been smashed so hard on her forehead that it was half opened. Her face was a mask of red.

I would never do it.

Would I?

Didn’t I almost kill my brother, just a few seconds ago?

What’s this fucking nightmare?

I got up with blind rage.

I started screaming, punching the wall. I ran around the house, pushing, throwing and breaking everything. I barely saw what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop.

I needed to destroy something. I needed to destroy everything.

I yelled the whole time. I felt incredible weak and hurt, but my body just kept going.

No room survived.

When I’d finally calmed myself, I realized I was alone.

My brother was gone. The house was destroyed.

My sister was dead.

Without knowing what to do, I went looking for my father’s shovel and started digging on our backyard.