Roxanne

They say you never forget the moment your life changes forever.

For me, it was the scent of burning wood mixed with blood.

I was only ten, but I remember everything like it’s carved into my bones. The way the night air felt too cold for summer, the flicker of flames dancing against the dark sky, and the screams—God, the screams still echo in my head. My mother’s voice, sharp with terror, my father’s desperate roars, and my little brother’s cries fading too fast.

I was hiding in the closet, just like my mom told me to. "Don’t make a sound, Roxanne," she whispered, her fingers trembling as she tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. "No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, stay quiet."

I did.

I stayed quiet when the door crashed open.

I stayed quiet when the snarling started.

I stayed quiet when the blood splattered across the floor, creeping like dark vines toward the closet where I hid.

But I’ll never forget the sound—the wet, tearing sound of teeth sinking into flesh. The growls weren’t like anything human. They were low, guttural, monstrous. I peeked through the slats of the closet door, just for a second. Long enough to see claws where hands should’ve been, glowing eyes like molten gold, and blood dripping from sharp, curved fangs.

That night, I learned one thing: monsters are real.

And they destroyed my family.

I survived, but I didn’t live. Not really.

I existed, fueled by one thing—rage.

I remember a fire had started and the fire spread fast. The heat licked at the wooden beams, smoke curling toward the ceiling like a living thing. My lungs burned with every breath, but I didn't move. I didn't make a sound.

Through the slats of the closet door, I saw my father fight. He wasn't a weak man-he was strong, the kind of strong that made me believe nothing could ever hurt us. But against them, even he didn't stand a chance.

His silver knife flashed in the firelight as he slashed at the monster closest to him. The blade cut deep, carving into its side, but the creature didn't even flinch. It let out a low, guttural laugh, something almost human but twisted with something darker. Then, faster than I could blink, it lunged.

The next few seconds burned into my memory like a brand.

The sound of ribs cracking. The way my father's body jerked as claws ripped through him. The strangled, wet gasp he made before his legs gave out beneath him.

I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood, choking on a sob.

My mother screamed his name. She tried to run to him, but another one of them grabbed her, yanking her back by the hair. She fought-kicking, clawing, even biting-but she was no match.

And my little brother-God, my little brother.

He was only six. Too young to understand what was happening. He just stood there, barefoot on the wooden floor, his wide brown eyes filled with confusion and fear.

"Mommy?" his small voice wavered.

She tried to reach for him. "Run, Caleb! Run!"

He didn't.

He never got the chance.

A clawed hand struck out, too fast to stop. Caleb let out a small, surprised sound as the blow knocked him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, his little body crumpling like a broken doll.

Something inside me cracked.

I wanted to scream. To throw open the closet door. To tear them apart with my bare hands. But I was frozen-paralyzed by fear, by the overwhelming helplessness clawing at my chest.