Shimmering lights of an icy blue marinate the seasonal summer in a morbid and gloomy tone. Sun rays are shattered by clouds dressed in black mourning. Crows encircle the skies in tight circles, like vultures that have caught the scent of death. They've been at it since dawn. Could such behaviour be an omen of what was about to happen? Were they the messengers of death, the carriers of the condemned? Was the heron that crashed into my window the universe trying to warn me of what was to come? Why didn't I pay attention?

"I'm sorry, but you can't be here," a uniformed man says. He is tall with narrow grey eyes separated by a nose that almost covers a small cut on his upper lip. The unkempt beard and tired expression, intensified by poor coordination of movements, suggest he was dragged out of bed by the news of the incident. Dang it! It's barely past ten, and my house is already filled with blue uniforms bustling around, busily commanded by the man, perpetuated by the walkie-talkies on their jackets, collecting evidence, photographing the clues, violating the privacy I took months to establish within these walls as if it were some twisted episode of C.S.I.

"You need to leave!" he says. This time, I pay attention to his words and respond, "But they are my parents!"

Or at least they were... a thought I don't dare to express out loud and one I didn't expect to cross my mind so soon.

He lightly touches my shoulder, both to comfort me and to prevent me from doing something rash, which is precisely what I do by punching him in the cheek and rushing through the half-open door of my apartment.

"Mom! Dad!" I shout at the top of my lungs.

Sitting on the couch, with arms outstretched and legs crossed comfortably, is my mother. It seems like she fell asleep again in front of the TV, except she now has only half of her face. She always insisted on painting the walls red, just didn't expect it to happen like this. In a diagonal line is my father, sprawled on the carpet. He has a large hole in his chin that seems to extend to the top of his head, as I can see the tip of the room through it. Technicians lean against the walls to scrape a mush of brains stuck to them like a sticky mould infestation.

A couple of arms pull me by the waist, preventing me from advancing further. Instinctively, I bend my arm and elbow my obstacle. Not even when he screams do I bother to look back; my vision is fixed on that scene. A group of police officers pushes me against the door frame, leaving my head throbbing. The discovery of my parents and the disorientation from the blow makes me explode into a puddle of gastric juice and milk with cereal. The room starts to spin, and my knees collapse.

I feel an incandescent light burning behind my eyelids. I struggle to open my eyes. The left one blinks a few times until it gains clarity; the right one remains semi-open, still half asleep, closing automatically to a grotesque beam of light. The muscles, once soft, begin to gain strength. My pupils take time to adjust to the different shades, still with a very primitive perception of depth. It's like looking at a child's painting: no sharpness in the lines, and a pronounced absence of intricate contours, but the context is clear and expressive. When I see that I'm in an ambulance, I close my eyelids again, repeating it continuously until I wake up in my bed and realize it was just a horrible nightmare, but no matter how many times I try, the nightmare still lingers.

Come on, Gabi, you can wake up! You have to wake up! Just take a deep breath, and when you open your eyes, you'll see your mom cooking pancakes while Dad reads the newspaper, one, two, ... three!

I open my eyes at once, and two silhouettes materialize.

"Mom, Dad! I knew you hadn't died! I'm so happy!"

I quickly realise the mistake. A nurse is talking to the police officer.

"He hit his head, but nothing serious. Probably collapsed due to the shock of finding his parents in that state," he explains.

Oh no!

"Is he going to be okay?" the police officer asks.

"I injected him with a sedative," he shrugs, clearly dissatisfied. "It's the best I can do for him right now! It doesn't cure him, but it gives him some relief!"

There's no medicine in this world that can alleviate what I'm feeling! There's only one way to make the pain stop!

With my eyes fixed on the officer's waist, I observe the handle of the gun there, waiting for me to grab it. Unable to stand, I just stretch my arm. Inches from my fingers, I can already feel the dexterity of its touch, its scream resonating in my ears like a ballad. A bullet! I only need one bullet to see them again. They want me by their side, I can feel it! They need me! Just press the trigger, that simple. I smile, imagining the impact of the bullet piercing my forehead, tearing through everything in its path as it sucks all the life out of me. The closer I am to death, the more they come to life. I bend my body. With each passing millisecond, I feel them closer.

That's right! It's almost over; you just need to pick up the gun. We're on the other side waiting for you; you just have to take the final step, Mum whispers to me in her angelic voice.

I snatch the gun from the man's waist, turning it towards me with a quick twist of the wrist.

"No!" he rushes towards me.

The officer grabs the gun as soon as my finger touches the trigger. The paramedic goes to help him, but it's already too late.

Mom, Dad, I'm coming.

Bang!