I drove to my father's home in his car, the chainsaw resting on the passenger seat beside me. The engine hummed quietly as I turned into the neighborhood. Nice houses. Clean streets. Manicured lawns. The kind of place where people felt safe.
The lights were still on in the house. I could see them glowing through the windows, warm and inviting. They must still be awake.
I parked in the driveway and got out, carrying the chainsaw with both hands. It was heavier than I remembered, the weight pulling at my arms. Blood had dried on the blade, flaking off in dark chips with each step.
I walked up to the front door and pushed the doorbell. A soft chime echoed inside, pleasant and welcoming.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the intercom crackled to life.
"Hello? Who's there at this hour?" A woman's voice, sleepy and confused.
I leaned closer to the speaker. "It's me. Noel. I came to deliver some urgent news about David."
There was a pause. Then footsteps, growing louder.
"Okay, okay. I'm coming."
The door opened, and my father's new wife stood there in a silk robe, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She blinked at me, her eyes adjusting to the porch light. Then her gaze moved from my face to my clothes to the chainsaw in my hands. Her expression changed from confusion to horror in the span of a heartbeat.
"He... what the fuck happened to you?" She took a step back, her hand flying to her mouth.
"Ah, sorry." I looked down at myself. My shirt was stiff with dried blood, my pants splattered with gore. Pieces of tissue clung to my sleeves.
"I must look horrifying."
I pulled the chainsaw's cord.
VRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
The engine roared to life, shattering the quiet night. Dogs started barking in the distance.
She tried to scream, but I swung before the sound could leave her throat.
The blade caught her in the middle of her forehead, cutting downward with terrible efficiency. There was resistance at first, the teeth grinding against bone with a high pitched whine, and then it gave way. The chainsaw tore through skull, through brain, through the soft tissue of her face and neck.
Blood erupted like a fountain, spraying across the doorway, the walls, my face. Hot and thick, it splattered everywhere. Her body split apart vertically, the two halves separating slowly, almost gracefully. Her left side fell to the right, her right side to the left, collapsing onto the polished hardwood floor with wet thuds that echoed through the foyer.
Her organs spilled out between the pieces, gray and pink and red, steaming in the cool night air. Intestines uncoiled like rope. Her heart, still twitching, slid across the floor. The smell hit me immediately. Copper and waste and something sweet and rotten that made my eyes water.
Her eyes were still open, both halves of her face staring at nothing, frozen in that last moment of terror.
The scream must have woken my brothers.
I heard footsteps thundering down the stairs. A teenage boy appeared at the landing, rubbing his eyes. He wore pajama pants and a t-shirt with some band logo on it. He saw the scene. His mother's body. The blood pooling across the expensive hardwood. Me standing in the doorway with the chainsaw still running, dripping red.
"No! Noooooo!" His voice cracked, high and desperate. He stumbled backward, nearly tripping on the stairs.
"Hello, Marcus," I said, raising my voice over the chainsaw's roar. I'd heard my father say his name once during our business meetings.
"Fuck you, psycho!" He turned and ran back up the stairs, his feet slipping on the carpet. I heard a door slam somewhere above.
Ah, he must be going to get the youngest one. To hide somewhere. To protect his little brother. That's what I would do.
I stepped over what was left of my stepmother and walked into the house. The chainsaw vibrated in my hands, the engine sputtering slightly. Blood dripped from the blade onto the white carpet, leaving a trail of dark spots. The living room was nice. Leather couches that probably cost more than my first car. A massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Family photos everywhere. My father smiling with his new wife and sons, all of them happy and whole and perfect.
I made my way to the stairs slowly, letting them hear me coming. The chainsaw scraped against the wall as I climbed, leaving a dark streak across the cream colored paint. Each step creaked under my weight.
"Marcus? Alex?" I called out, my voice sing-song, almost playful.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are."
No response. Just the sound of the chainsaw and my own breathing and the blood dripping onto the stairs.
I reached the second floor. The hallway stretched out before me, doors on both sides. Some were closed, some slightly ajar. A nightlight plugged into the wall cast a soft glow across the carpet.
I checked the first bedroom. Empty. The bed was made, pillows arranged neatly. Posters of cars on the walls. A desk with a laptop and scattered papers. I looked in the closet, pushing aside hanging clothes. Nothing. I got down on my knees and checked under the bed. Just shoes and dust bunnies.
The second bedroom was the same. Empty. Undisturbed. This one had sports trophies on a shelf and a basketball in the corner. The closet was open, clothes visible inside, but no one hiding.
I moved down the hallway, checking each door. The bathroom. Shower curtain pulled back. Empty tub. Medicine cabinet hanging open. No one.
A home office. Desk with a computer. Bookshelves. Window overlooking the backyard. Empty.
A guest room. Bed perfectly made with decorative pillows. Closet empty except for winter coats. No one.
Then I heard it. A soft whimper, quickly stifled. Coming from the end of the hall.
The master bedroom.
I pushed the door open slowly. It creaked on its hinges, the sound loud in the silence. The room was large, dominated by a king sized bed with silk sheets that probably cost more than I made in a month. A dresser with perfume bottles and jewelry boxes. A vanity with a mirror surrounded by lights. And a closet with sliding doors, one of them slightly ajar.
I could see a sliver of darkness inside. And movement. The faintest shift of shadow.
"I know you're in there," I said softly, almost gently.
The whimpering stopped. I could hear breathing now, quick and shallow.
I walked over to the closet slowly, the chainsaw idling in my hands. I reached out and pulled the door open all the way.
Marcus was crouched in the back corner, his arms wrapped around his younger brother. Alex was maybe thirteen, his face buried in Marcus's chest, his small hands clutching his brother's shirt. Both of them were shaking so hard I could see it even in the dim light.
Marcus looked up at me. His face was wet with tears, his eyes red and puffy. But there was something else there too. Defiance.
"Please," Marcus said, his voice breaking. "Please don't. He's just a kid."
"I know," I said. "That's why I want him with me. So he'll never have to grow up and get hurt. So he'll never be betrayed. So he'll never be alone."
I raised the chainsaw slightly.
Marcus pushed his brother behind him and stood up on shaking legs. He was tall, almost as tall as me, but thin. Still growing. "Take me instead. Let him go. Please. I'm begging you."
"I can't do that," I said, and I meant it. "We're family. We have to stay together. All of us."
"You're not our family!" Marcus shouted, his voice cracking. "You're a monster!"
I tilted my head, considering that. "Maybe. But we share the same blood. The same father. That makes us brothers."
"He was never your father!" Marcus spat. Literally spat, saliva flying from his mouth.
"He left you! He didn't want you!"
That hurt. More than I expected it to. I felt something twist in my chest.
"I know," I said quietly. "That's why I'm here. To make sure we're never apart again."
Marcus lunged at me suddenly, desperately, trying to tackle me. He was fast for someone so scared, but not fast enough. I sidestepped, and he crashed into the wall beside me. Before he could recover, I swung the chainsaw.
The blade caught him in the ribs, tearing through his shirt and skin and bone. He screamed, a raw animal sound that echoed through the house, and fell to his knees. Blood poured from the wound, soaking through his clothes, pooling on the carpet beneath him. He clutched his side, his fingers slipping in the blood, trying desperately to hold himself together.
"Marcus!" Alex screamed from inside the closet.
I brought the chainsaw down again, this time on Marcus's neck. The blade cut through quickly, almost too easily. His head separated from his body and rolled across the floor, coming to rest against the dresser. His eyes were still open, still looking at me. His mouth moved slightly, like he was trying to say something, and then stopped.
His body stayed upright for a moment, blood fountaining from the stump of his neck like a broken sprinkler, and then it toppled forward with a heavy thud.
Alex was screaming now, his voice high and piercing and broken. He tried to run past me, scrambling out of the closet on his hands and knees. I reached down and grabbed his arm. He fought me, kicking and clawing and biting, but he was small and I was strong.
Then I heard it. Police sirens. Distant but growing louder. Getting closer.
"Ah, fuck." I looked toward the window. Red and blue lights were flashing outside, painting the walls in alternating colors. Multiple cars. "They must have found the bodies at the office already."
I let go of Alex and he bolted out of the room, his footsteps pounding down the hallway. I heard him stumble, heard him crying, heard a door slam.
I turned off the chainsaw and dropped it on the floor next to Marcus's body. No time. I needed something faster. Something quieter.
I went to the master bedroom and knelt beside the bed. My father had bragged to me once about his hidden compartment, showed it off like a proud child showing a secret fort.
"Just in case," he'd said, winking. I felt along the underside of the bed frame until I found the latch. It clicked open, and I pulled out a small lockbox.
Inside was a gun. A 9mm handgun, black and cold. And two full magazines.
I loaded one of the magazines, the bullets clicking into place with satisfying precision. The metal was cold in my hands, heavier than I expected. I chambered a round, the slide making a sharp metallic sound, and tucked the gun into my waistband.
Then I went to find Alex.
He wasn't hard to find. I could hear him crying, his sobs echoing through the house like a wounded animal. I followed the sound down the hallway, past the guest room, past the office. The bathroom at the end of the hall. The door was closed but not locked.
I pushed it open slowly. The hinges squeaked.
Alex was huddled in the bathtub, his knees pulled up to his chest, making himself as small as possible. His face was red and wet with tears and snot. He looked up at me with eyes so full of terror it almost made me stop.
Almost.
"Please," he whispered. His voice was hoarse from screaming. "Please don't kill me. I didn't do anything. Please."
I pulled out the gun and aimed it at him. My hand was steady.
"Freeze!"
The voice came from behind me, harsh and commanding and familiar. I turned slowly.
Police officers filled the hallway, shoulder to shoulder, all of them in tactical gear. Helmets. Body armor. Guns raised and pointed directly at me. Laser sights painted red dots across my chest. Flashlights mounted on their rifles, blinding me with white light.
And leading them, right at the front, was Detective John.
His face was pale. His eyes were wide with horror and disbelief and something that looked like heartbreak. He lowered his rifle slightly, his hands shaking so badly I could see the barrel trembling.
"Noel," he said, and his voice broke on my name. Just broke completely. "Put the gun down."
I didn't move. I kept the gun pointed at Alex.
"Please," John said, stepping forward. The other officers tensed immediately, their fingers tightening on their triggers. "Please, son. Don't do this."
"I'm not your son," I said quietly. My voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears. Empty. Like all the emotion had been scooped out and replaced with nothing.
"Yes, you are." John's eyes were wet now, tears running down his cheeks, cutting tracks through the dust and sweat on his face.
"You're my son. Margaret's son. We love you. We love you so much. Please. Just put the gun down and we can talk about this. We can fix this."
I looked at him. Really looked at him. At the man who had saved me from the rain. Who had given me a home when I had nothing. Who had called me son and meant it. Who had never once made me sleep outside or go hungry or feel like I was worthless.
"I'm sorry," I said. My voice was flat, emotionless, but inside something was breaking apart piece by piece.
"I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. I'm sorry I couldn't be the son you wanted."
"You were," John said, his voice choked with tears.
"You are. You're a good kid. A good person. You just need help. Please. Let me help you. Let me take you home. Margaret is waiting. She's so worried. Please, Noel. Please."
I shook my head slowly. "It's too late for that. I've gone too far. Done too much."
"It's not," John insisted, taking another step closer. One of the officers hissed a warning but he ignored it.
"It's never too late. Not for you. Never for you. Just put the gun down. Please. For me. For Margaret. For everyone who loves you."
I thought about Margaret. About her warm smile. About the tea she made me every night. About the way she called me honey and tucked a blanket around me when I fell asleep on the couch. About how she cried when I gave her flowers on Mother's Day.
My hand started to shake. The gun wavered.
"That's it," John said gently, hope creeping into his voice.
"That's it, son. Just lower the gun. Nice and slow. Everything's going to be okay."
But it wasn't going to be okay. It could never be okay again.
I turned back to Alex, who was still sobbing in the bathtub. He looked so small. So scared. Just like I used to be when I was his age. When my mother locked me outside. When Amy left. When everyone left.
"I will never stop loving you..." I said softly, and I wasn't sure if I was talking to Alex or John or Margaret or my mother or everyone I'd ever lost. "Father."
Then I pulled the trigger.
Bang.
The gunshot was deafening in the small bathroom, echoing off the tile walls. Alex's head snapped back, a hole appearing above his left eye, perfectly round and dark. Blood and brain matter splattered across the white tile behind him, painting abstract patterns. His body slumped sideways, sliding down into the tub with a soft thump.
I felt the second bullet before I heard it.
It hit me square in the forehead, just above my right eye. There was a flash of pain, bright and sharp like lightning, and then nothing. The world tilted. My legs gave out. The gun slipped from my hand, clattering on the tile floor.
The last thing I heard was John screaming my name. Not angry. Not hateful. Just broken. Completely broken.
The last thing I saw was the ceiling, white and clean and far away, getting darker at the edges.
Then darkness. Complete and total.
The day ended in tragedy.
A son who killed his own father.
A father who killed his own son.
Two families, shattered beyond repair. Two lives, extinguished in the same breath. The line between love and destruction, erased by grief too heavy to carry and pain too deep to heal. Both of them believed they were doing what was right. Both of them were wrong in ways that could never be undone.
John collapsed to his knees beside Noel's body, his rifle clattering to the floor. He reached out with shaking hands and closed Noel's eyes, his own tears falling onto the Noel's blood covered face.
"I'm sorry," John whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you."
In the end, they were both just broken people who had run out of ways to understand each other. Who had loved in their own damaged ways and paid the ultimate price for it.
The house fell silent except for John's quiet sobs.
And the world moved on, as it always does, leaving only blood and grief and unanswered questions in its wake.