𝕀 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒 𝕝𝕠𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕔𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕤. 𝕀𝕥'𝕤 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝕒 𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕀 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕓𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕜.

Samuel Carmichael grips the key in his right hand and twists it in the ignition, shutting off the rumbling engine. He returns his right hand beside the left on the steering wheel and stares ahead at the three-bedroom house he worked for decades to afford.

He'd just arrived from his job, working for an office supply distribution company an hour from home. Today would've been the day he strutted into that very house with an ear-to-ear grin, beaming over the promotion he swore would be his.

But it was handed to someone else. Someone he deems undeserving: Marsha Andrews.

Although he doesn't realize it, Marsha is among the top three Ivy League graduates working at Flint-Michigan Paper Company. While he would count down the second to clock out, she often stayed late whenever she could.

She was never late because she'd leave in her truck two hours before her shift and use the extra time to get breakfast for herself and a few coworkers.

Even if he knew all she did to deserve the promotion, he'd never change his opinion. He boasted about the opportunity to his friends; they'd never let him live it down if they knew he lost to a woman.

Samuel exits the car with his briefcase and clicks the button on the fob to lock it. The one-way street is barren of activity, with only a few cars parked along the curb. Some of the neighborhood children haven't arrived from school yet, and the adults are away as well.

Only one person is outside, and he's their next-door neighbor, Matthew.

Matthew is lying on an under-car roller, tightening bolts below his Chevy truck.

"Good afternoon, Mat," Samuel says after only sparing him a glance.

Hearing his name, Matthew drags his boots against the driveway to slide the roller from under his vehicle. He's covered in oil that has already dried, making his fingers, palms, chin, and neck appear as though they're severely frostbitten.

"Sam, good afternoon," he says, more chipper than his monotonous neighbor. The man sits up and slips the once-white cotton rag from the chest pocket of his overalls.

Samuel looks at him and gives a half smile that barely reaches his eyes. His neighbor wipes the sweat from his brow, then dabs the tar-colored substance clinging to his brown skin.

Samuel steps between a wicker chair his wife made and a gifted potted plant; they stash various keys. As he inserts the key in the lock, he stares at the welcome mat below his brown loafers.

The door barely swings open before his daughter, Sophie, sprints toward him from her spot by the box television.

Her honey-blonde hair sways against her shoulders, although the pieces by her temples are pinned back with white clips.

"Daddy," she yells with the joy she held when she was a toddler. The two were inseparable until she started middle school and he transferred to his current job.

"Hey, pumpkin." She wraps her arms around him, and he heaves a genuine smile, but it's as faint as the one he gave Stanley. The father sets a hand on his little girl's head and runs his thumb up and down her side part.

His wife, Rachel, steps through the arch separating the spacious living room from the kitchen. She grins with her top row of teeth at the duo, then says, "You're home. I didn't expect you for another hour."

"Why?" he drags the question, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Well, I figured since today's the day you -- y'know -- got promoted, you'd call your buddies out of their homes to celebrate." His eye twitches and his nostrils flare at her answer. He did plan to drink with Frank and Martin but figured it'd be pointless now.

"Well, I didn't get the promotion, so," he lifts the hand that holds his keys. "Here I am," he says while letting that hand fall to his leg. The keys jingle, and she glances at them before staring at their daughter.

"Sophie, honey, go get your brother and sister. Dinner is finished." The child takes her arms off her father and then shuffles past her mother. Sophie continues through the kitchen, with a door to the backyard on one side and a hall of rooms on the other.

"So, you planned to eat without me," he asks, and she furrows her eyebrows.

"Should I have let the children starve while you were out for who knows how long?" He rolls his eyes and drops his briefcase next to the front door. "Samuel, what's wrong? What happened?"

"What do you mean, what's wrong, and what happened? I didn't get the promotion. Obviously, that's what's wrong." He speaks with his hands, the keys rattling and echoing through the living room. "I work my ass off for this company, and yet they overlook me for a yuppie."

She brings her small lips inward, her wintergreen eyes following his movements. She watches his eyes bore into her and his hands thrashing.

Seeing she's not responding, he huffs bits of rage, but his blood pressure continues to rise at the thought of the missed opportunity.

He had so many plans and dreams for his family, starting with buying a bigger house and renting their current one.

He drops the keys in the bowl and then steps toward the three-seater against the wall adjacent to the arch. "Was it Darnell?"

"No, it was Marsha," he says, fanning off her question with a sour face. Rachel tucks her jet-black hair behind her ears and steps closer to him. She sits with him in the sunlight pouring in and crosses one leg over the other.

The afternoon sun makes her ivory skin glow like the vampires in her favorite movie.

Samuel lifts his hand to his face, shuts his eyes, and pinches his nosebridge. She inhales and holds the air in her chest, contemplating if it's a good time to tell him what she's done.

"Mom?" She turns her head to the right where their son's voice is. He's standing under the arch in an oversized jersey, big cut-offs, and Nike Air Forces.

"Zach, I need you and Sophie to set the table." He nods and steps into the kitchen. She looks at her husband, his hand shaking on his lap while the other hasn't moved from his face. "Maybe you can try working overtime or asking for more hours?"

"What good would that do? They already gave it to her, Rachel," he says, his voice rising with the anger it bears. Cutlery clinks as Zach and Sophie take dishes from the cabinets.

"I know," she stammers, "but maybe if they see you giving them more of your time and energy, they'll consider you for the next one. Who knows, it could possibly be an even bigger promotion or raise."

Samuel stares into the soft green eyes, begging him to simmer down, but he's unable to. As good as it sounds, he doubts it'll happen, and he refuses to put in more effort just to be rejected.

He stands and walks past her without a word. Rachel sighs, then follows him into the dining room.

All of their children are seated in front of their plates of food, while two extra plates sit at both heads of the table.

The married couple find their seats, his facial expression sour and hers cheerful.

"The food looks great, Mom," Sophie says, unaware of the tension. Zach agrees, fully aware that their parents were arguing.

"Yeah, it really looks good. I wish I could take a picture of it." They look at Susie across from Zach, staring through her Versace shades. She's sixteen, a year younger than Zach, and four years older than Sophie.

Zach chuckles at her remark, having grown used to her self-deprecating jokes that somehow make others uncomfortable.

Samuel flicks his eyes onto his son, watching him cut through a Tomahawk steak.

His hair falls down his head, and his bangs swoop to the side. For once, he's not wearing his snapback at the table, but Samuel narrows his eyes at the diamond chain hanging down his son's chest.

With his eyebrows dipped, Samuel nudges his chin upward at his son's jewelry and asks, "Zach, where'd you get that necklace?"

"Neck-," he pauses when Susie snickers, then cuts his eyes at her. Her smile doesn't leave her face. "Dad, it's not a necklace."

Zach looks at his father as he asks, "Where'd you get it?"

"Mom bought it earlier." Rachel parts her lips and sucks in a breath.

"I was going to tell you," she stutters. "I bought some things for the kids."

He lifts an eyebrow and scoffs, sitting back.

"Some things put it lightly." Sophie licks her lips, locking her eyes on her tomahawk and buttery mashed potatoes. She's beginning to notice her father's mood, and it turns her stomach. "Who said we can afford that?"

"Samuel," Rachel sharply calls her husband, flicking her eyes onto their children to remind him of their presence without turning her head. "Don't talk like we're poor."

"I mean, at this rate, we will be before Christmas," he says, throwing his hands up. "Jesus fucking Christ, Rachel!" His voice booms and his hands bang against the table, rocking the dishes. Everyone either flinches or sucks in a breath. "And you bought Susie Versace shades? Why? Do you not realize how pointless it is to get her something so expensive?"

"Samuel," his wife says, warning him not to say anything offensive. Her voice quivers, but she tries to show firmness.

He gazes around the table, noticing their unease. He scoffs and shakes his head.

"You know what? I can't do this right now." Samuel's chair legs scrape the wood flooring as he excuses himself from the table.

No one moves for a few beats, their hearts pounding and breaths hitched.

"Eat your dinner," she softly tells their kids, then stands. She finds him in their bedroom, sitting at the foot of the bed and staring into space.

Across from him is a twelve gauge shotgun mounted on the wall. Underneath it is a small CRT television set on an electric fireplace TV stand.

"I'm going to go get a drink. I should've gone out and blown off steam before I got here, but," he trails off, shaking his head absent-mindedly.

***

Samuel stumbles through the door and shuts it right when the clock strikes at nine p.m.

His once smooth, brushed hair lay in disarray across his head like his button-up shirt, which clings to his sweaty skin. Some buttons are undone and others aren't properly aligned.

He passed his neighbor, Matthew, when the older man was packing his tools into the red toolbox.

Matthew didn't see him, so Samuel walked past without greeting him again.

He needed a moment to release his frustration and gather his thoughts, so he went to the dive bar he often frequented with his friends - Frank and Martin - then drank until the bartender refused to hand him another.

He staggers through the living room, only the moonlight guiding him to the arch. The rest of the house is ill-lit and shadowy.

He hears his son talking on his phone; Zach's bedroom door cracked open. Samuel stands at the door and stares through the opening, watching the rocky version of Zach lying on the bed with the comforter under him.

He bought his son a Nokia 3310 when it was released, only because he kept pestering him about getting him one. Times like that, he was happy that Sophie and Susie never needed a phone.

"It's getting late," Zach says, his voice low and husky, which tells Samuel that he's talking to his girlfriend. "Send me the picture, and I'll text you before bed." Text? Samuel raises an eyebrow as his son bids the girl goodnight.

His friends taught him what texting was. They bought their teenagers the newest flip phones and Nokias, but despite knowing his son has a keyboard on the phone he gifted him, it comes as a shock.

Zach never texts anyone on that phone.

Zach tilts and holds the phone in front of himself. He slides the keyboard open with his thumbs, and Samuel's face relaxes.

This isn't a feature on the phone he gave him.

Slowly, he turns his head to the master bedroom door. She bought him jewelry, fancy shoes, and a new cellphone, then spent more money on shades for their daughter.

All it took was hearing that he'd get promoted, and she went and splurged the money he hoped would keep them afloat.

Frivolous purchases.

Samuel's knuckles pop as he flexes his fists, drawing his son's attention to the door. He has a tank with navy blue LED lights between the glass and the wall adjacent to his window. His iguana is somewhere in there.

Zach looks at the door, but Samuel continues through the hall. Since their door is closed, he assumes that his daughters are asleep in their room.

He steps into the master bedroom and shuts himself inside.

Rachel lies asleep on her side of the bed with the thick blanket up to her neck. Her long, full hair is pulled into a French braid with wavy flyaways here and there.

He stares at her as he kicks his loafers off, letting them fling across the floor. Knowing she so eagerly spent his money makes him question everything he sees.

Is the bed new? Did she buy nightgowns?

He steps past the fireplace beside the door and stops in front of the dresser, overlooking the side yard. The sheer curtains hang in the space between the dresser and the wall.

He yanks open a drawer, then tosses her underclothes and socks around. He slams it shut, then repeats the process with another drawer.

Hearing the rumbling and banging, Rachel opens her eyes. All she sees is a silhouette and jerks upright.

"Sam," she calls her husband, and he stops moving. He turns his head to her so fast that her heart skips a beat, and she brings a hand to her chest. She stutters when she asks, "What're you doing here?"

"What do you mean, what am I doing here? I live here." He scrunches his face. He slams the drawer shut, and she flinches against her satin nightgown. Samuel flicks the lamp on, then turns his back to the wide dresser. He crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at the white lace trim along her baby blue nightgown's top and bottom. "That looks new," he says, nudging his chin up to gesture at her attire.

She follows his eyes, and her shoulders drop, then slouch. She takes a smooth breath that quivers out of her nose, her attention returning to him.

"It was one of the surprises I had for you." Her voice is low -- meek -- but he hears her. He widens his eyes in mock surprise, then tilts his nodding head.

"That; Zach's jewelry, his cellphone, sneakers," he trails off, not needing to mention Susie's sunglasses. Rachel's wintergreen eyes pull away from the intense, dark brown ones aimed at her. "What else, Rache? Tell me, what else did you spend my money on?"

"Your money?" She whips her head to him, finding the courage to question him. "Since when has it only been your money?"

"Since the day you quit your job in '01, and it's been me," he says, slapping his chest once. The sound echoes like a drum, and his voice jumps as he continues, "taking care of the bills and everything else! You haven't brought in a damn thing because you don't do anything! If something happened to me, these kids would be dead because you don't have a fucking job!"

His chest heaves out and in, his nostrils flare, and his knuckles pop again.

She watches his hands flex and tremble, then eyes the vein on his forehead.

She quit her job because she had to. She was pregnant with their youngest son and passed out at work. Her coworkers stayed by her side while their boss called her an ambulance. She was at the hospital alone, shaking and sweating -- barely conscious -- and he was celebrating Frank's newborn while his own wife miscarried their baby. She had a D&C with no one there for her but nurses and the doctor.

All of this he knows. He told her to quit so her body and mind could heal and to not find work again if she didn't want to.

But she wouldn't remind him; she'd rather let him rage and apologize in the morning.

"I bought Sophie one of those battery-operated dogs -- FurReal pets or friends, whatever it's called -- then took your shotgun to be cleaned." He whips his head to the twelve-gauge mounted on the wall.

"I thought I told you not to touch it," he says, dragging his cold gaze back to her.

"I was trying to be nice," she mumbles, and he blinks back as his mouth hangs open.

"By not listening," he raises his voice again, and she shuts her eyes. "This is the shit I'm always talking about; you never listen to me! If I say, Don't touch my gun, why does it translate in your head as touch the gun?"

He rants and raves about her disobedience and how the kids learned it from her, but her mind drifts away from the lecture. She hears him, but his speech is unintelligible like she's underwater.

Rachel remembers a time when they were consistently happy -- before Susie lost her eyesight. They traveled to the Bahamas and Jamaica every other year; he smiled so much it was like he glowed; everything was perfect. Once the medical bills came in, little by little, his joy soured.

They stopped vacationing altogether to save up for Susie's eye surgery, only to find out after the procedure that it was pointless and, if anything, the surgery made it worse. She went from foggy vision, like mirrors in a steamy bathroom, to complete darkness.

Rachel watches him pace and thrash his hands like a professor giving a passionate lecture, but all she sees is the glow he once had.

"It'll be okay," she tells him, and he stops in his tracks. He stares at her with lowered eyebrows, like she threatened him. "Like I said, the promotion isn't the end all be all. There are so many other opportunities, Sam."

"Rachel, what the hell are you talking about?" Her lips part and her eyes flick from one of his to the other. "I stopped talking about that earlier. Are you even listening?"

She stares wide-eyed and slack-jawed. She wasn't listening, but she hoped her encouragement would calm him before he woke the kids.

She doesn't answer, and he notices her body barely moving, as if she's too stunned to breathe.

Samuel blinks a few times, his anger dissipating from his face. He feels like he worked himself to the bone to keep them comfortable, but the very people he stressed himself for took advantage.

He lets out a manic chuckle and turns to the window. The street lamps are on, and their other neighbor has a few lights on in his house.

He's had dark thoughts since he left the house to cool off, but he's been trying to suppress them.

He loves his family more than he loves himself, but Rachel tipped him over the edge.

"Fuck it." She furrows her eyebrows at his remark, hearing him clearly despite him mumbling. He rummages through one of the drawers, and she opens her mouth to speak, not really having much to say.

Samuel turns to her with a Colt All American firmly grasped. He raises it to her, and her eyes bulge, seeming ready to pop out of her head.

He pulls the hammer back, and her hands raise in front of her.

"Sam!" He pulls the trigger. The gunshot rings out and spills into the hallway. The bullet strikes her in the chin, and her body jerks into the headboard.

Another shot.

Another bullet.

This one pierces through her cheek as she turns her head, and it exits out of the other. Her screams and pleas fall on deaf ears for Samuel, but her children are now wide awake.

Trails of blood glide down her jaw and chin. Pools of it trickle into her mouth, adding to the leaking wound on the surface of her tongue.

Rachel crawls across the bed with her big green eyes on the bedroom door. She wants her children; she wants to escape.

She wants nothing more than to live.

He follows her movements with his glazed eyes and the gun. He fires one last shot that enters her temple and drops her body off the edge of the bed.

Samuel lowers his weapon and stares at her lifeless body, lying in a fast-growing puddle. He glances at the specks of blood on her nightgown, then steps across her.

Samuel walks through the hall, the gun rattling at his side.

Sophie and Susie's bedroom door is ajar. He nudges it further with the back of his other hand, then scans the room from the arch.

The light from their fish tank illuminates the cluttered room, and their blanket lay in a heap on the floor.

He walks away and pushes Zach's door open. His son is standing at his window with his back to the door and his hands on the locks.

Zach stares at his father with wide eyes, then at the hot pistol.

Samuel admires the features they share: dark-brown eyes, a big nose with flared nostrils and a raised bridge, a peach-tinted complexion, and dirty-blond hair.

He locks the image in his memory -- blinking multiple times like he's mentally taking a picture -- then he aims the pistol at him.

"Dad," he yells, panic laced in his shaky voice. Samuel fires the weapon, and the bullet sears through his son's upper back.

The impact jolts Zach forward, and he slides down the window, landing against his iguana's tank.

Samuel starts to walk toward the kitchen but stops when he hears someone.

Footsteps shuffling. Faint whispering, whimpering, and sniffling.

He looks over his shoulder, then returns to his daughters' room. He follows the sound further inside and stops at the closet.

He draws aside the shutter doors, and Susie gasps. She smells his cologne wafting off his shirt and the sweat from his brow.

Susie is down on her haunches, their dresses swaying above her head. Her long hair is in a low ponytail that stops just above her elbows.

Samuel lifts the gun and aims it between her eyes.

"Dad," she calls out for him, her voice as unsteady as her brother's was. Tears run down her cheeks and gather at her chin. Her wintergreen eyes remain on his abdomen.

He fires the weapon, and she crashes into the wall, her legs splayed out and her back slouched.

Samuel uses the gun to push aside dresses and coats as he searches for Sophie.

He cranes his neck to look around the room, then checks the hall bathroom. He searches in Zach's closet and around his room.

Samuel walks through the kitchen, dining room, and living room but finds no sign of her anywhere.

He returns to the kitchen and sets the 9mm on the counter beside the humming fridge. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand as he walks to the mounted phone.

Samuel sets it to his ear and dials 911. He explains to the operator that he killed his wife and children, calmly telling them to send the police to his house after rattling off the address.

Once he finishes, he leaves the operator on the counter and tucks the AA2000 in the back of his pants.

Samuel retrieves a TV dinner from the freezer, rips off the plastic, then pops it in the microwave.

His back is turned to the hall and living room arch, giving Zach time to trudge past him.

His vision is blurry, fading in and out, but he keeps his eyes on his father.

The bullet tore through his subclavian artery, but he uses the adrenaline to guide him to the front door.

Slowly, he unlocks it.

The microwave buzzes, and Samuel balls up the plastic to dispose of it.

Once the last lock clicks, Zach's heart drops into his stomach. He takes jagged breaths, his body vibrating.

He thrusts the door open and sprints off the porch, his father whipping his head around to the sound.

The night air pours in, whistling and rustling Zach's T-shirt. Samuel follows the trail of blood and stops at the doorway.

Zach screams for help, limping and clutching his chest.

Samuel takes the gun and points it at his son, then pulls the trigger.

It clicks, so he does it again.

It clicks again and again.

Ten bullets remain, but the gun is jammed.

He tucks it in the back of his pants as he sprints further into the house. Samuel runs to the master bedroom and stops at the shotgun mounted on the wall.

He pulls up a chair and stands on it to reach the twelve gauge. Samuel carries it under his arm and storms through the house, returning to the doorway.

Zach is further up the street, pouring blood and staggering.

His father races down the steps after him. No one's outside, but some porch lights are on.

Samuel stops when he reaches the middle of the road. He lifts and aims the firearm, closing one eye to align the sights with the back of his son's head.

He pulls the trigger, and the sound scares off woodland creatures like squirrels and foxes. A few blackbirds caw and flap out of trees.

The bullet punctures Zach's neck, and he trips over his bare feet. The seventeen-year-old lands face first in the road with his arms under him.

Samuel lowers the weapon, then turns around and is frozen in place when he sees his neighbor, Matthew, watching him from his doorway. The man's eyes and mouth are wide.

Police sirens echo in the distance, growing louder and louder as the cruisers drive closer and closer.

His heart hasn't raced since he went on his rampage. He felt nothing as he took his family's lives, but seeing the older man standing there in shock seems to bring him back to reality.

Samuel blinks a few times, then stares at the shotgun under his arm like he doesn't remember grabbing it.

Matthew shuts himself in his house, and Samuel runs into his own.

The house is silent for a few seconds, then the microwave beeps.

He takes his meal to the living room, where he eats and watches The Price is Right.

Sophie remained under her bed in urine-soaked pajamas until the police handcuffed her father and located her.

The twelve-year-old refused to speak; she physically couldn't. Whenever she opened her mouth, she began hyperventilating and wailing.

She gave a written statement about what she heard and saw, which wasn't much, but it was enough to lock Samuel away for life.