My brother, treve, and I were wrestling in the backseat of our father's van.
We tumbled back and forth on the cold narrow leather. Our hands flailed wildy.

Startled by a nearby impact. Fallen with a loud clunk, a brevity of ceasefire elapsed to view this oddity.
A small briefcase had been knocked to the floor in the chaos. I reached out to claim it, my brother in opposition. Slipping through his grasp, down onto the mats. Popping open the case, retrieving the contents inside.

My arm hoisted, lifting me into the air. In a panicked reaction, my leg sprung out. Hurling backwards across the seat, nauseously brandishing the weapon in my grip.

Overtaking the car with a resounding screech. Hastily grappling for my hands, the momentum of his advance steadfast, this was a demand. My ears ringing and my sight fading to tears. Sluggishly fending his tight grip, swaying out of fear.
I felt the sturdiness of the trigger as my finger coiled against the freezing metal.
An explosive blast pierced the car. Blood splattered in each and every direction. Mixed liquids blind my vision, sickening to smell, viciously hurling in a frenzy. A sick treat, gradually conceding consciousness.

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