I’m supposed to pick my brother up:  a quick reminder for myself.  Something tells me I’m not going to find him on this floor.  I’m three stops from his floor, and if the elevator keeps acting up the way it has I am not going to get there any time soon.  You have to love the shortcomings of technological advancement.
            Time passes all too quickly.  The clock’s tics move up-tempo, and day turns into night suddenly and gracefully.  The house transitions completely into my parents’ house; looking out the window, the landscape is no longer the environment before, but the familiar front lawn I grew up lying and playing upon.  The house is practically vacant with the exception of a couple of my cousins, who are sisters.  The tables have obviously turned.
            The house is almost completely dark with the small exception of soft lighting, the electric candlelight exhaling in mists from the kitchen.  I stand in the dining room while my two cousins stand on the other side of a threshold.  For a moment, everything is quiet.  My vision is directed up the staircase, to the light which has exploded out of the bathroom; the door is the first one on the left as you come up the stairs.  A head pops out and then retracts, but only to slowly show once again.  My friend, Kennedy enters the hallway with a grin on his face and an indistinguishable object in his hand.  Another person joins him, but I do not have the slightest clue as to who it may be.  It’s definitely not his wife.
            Behind Kennedy, two more figures enter the hallway from the master bedroom, my parents’ bedroom, the second door on the left.  These two figures loom in the shadows and seem to rock in a back-and-forth motion.  They are not only camouflaged by the shadows, but they are, in essence, part of them; they are tall and faceless, similar to taking a blanket and wrapping it around one’s face—you can tell it’s a face, but you cannot make out the specifics. The figures hold objects in their hands.  Simply by looking at them, I fall short of breath.  As Kennedy retreats into the bathroom, the two objects raise their objects and begin firing.
            In response, I immediately dive back into a corner of the dining room, in vision of the living room in order to keep an eye on my cousins; they have ducked behind a couch.  They remain quiet in this time of panic.  They don’t smile, but their eyes tell all, their uncertainty and nervousness is exploited.  After the shots are fired, there are no remnants of destruction or bullet holes in the walls.  After a minute of calming down, I allow half of my face to be exposed to those upstairs.
            Kennedy is hopping in and out of the bathroom.  He still smiles as if he is amused, as if this whole thing is a game.  He exchanges words, but I can’t understand him.  His voice is muffled.  He’s mumbling.  The two figures behind him pace back and forth, keeping an eye upon the scenario downstairs, making sure we’re not pulling anything in response.  My gaze returns to the girls, who are now no longer behind the couch.  Where did they go?  I don’t see them anywhere, nor hear them.  Did they escape?  How come I didn’t hear their movements?  Did they get shot?  Are they—dead?
            I don’t have the slightest clue, but the only thing really surpassing this thought is my desire to escape.  Looking out the picture window of the living room, the sun is rising above the horizon, the orange soaking up into the sky.  I can either make a break for it, crawling silently through the dining room and then tiptoeing through the kitchen.  This way, I’ll have a clear shot of making it out the door to the garage or out the sliding door leading out to the deck.  Regardless of these thoughts, I chose a third method:  I make a break to the front door and I penetrate the living room, sliding behind the couch.