When the power shut off, no-one thought much of it. The power goes out all the time, right? Everyone thought it was normal. They had no idea what was coming.

There were few twinkling stars lighting up the sky that night, fewer than usual, everything was near pitch black. Mother lit a cinnamon-scented candle and I watched the flickering flame dance, waiting for the power to turn back on like it always did. Mason, my younger brother, laid down next to me on our new couch, just a few weeks old. It had been a birthday gift for Mother, violet, like she asked. It was way past Mason’s usual bedtime and his blue eyes fluttered as he tried to stay awake. Carol, the oldest of the four siblings, played a light symphony on her violin. Carol, Hope, Mason, me, Mama and Papa. That’s how it has always worked. Carol started playing higher and higher notes on the violin as if trying to keep the fated disaster of the night away. It didn’t work.

A loud tortured scream filled the air, echoing in all of our ears. I gripped the side of the couch in shock and fear, my small hands barely reaching around the whole arm rest. Carol stopped playing her symphony and set her violin down on the table. Her green, cat-like eyes were narrow.

“Father, what’s going on?” my seven year old brother had asked. I was frightened, more like petrified, but I hadn’t dared to ask. Father didn’t seem to know either. That much was clear as he grabbed his hunting gun from the forbidden chest beneath the TV. The grainy images had clicked off minutes ago with the power. The news about the upcoming election had been on. I hadn’t cared much for it but the rest of the family liked it. That is all except Mason. He was still too young to understand politics. Does the election have anything to do with this anyway? I mean, no-one likes the candidates. Could that be it?

Dark silhouettes appeared in our window moments later, close enough to leave smudges from their breath, clouding up parts of our window.

I listened as a sharp rapping sound followed only seconds later. 1,2,3,4-5. The pounding grew louder and the knocking noise came at faster intervals. Men outside were speaking in a language I hadn’t recognized, and it chilled me to the bone.

“Get in the basement kids,” Father told us through his gritted teeth with his gun aimed at the door. His knuckles were white from gripping the gun so tightly and his facial features showed grim determination. Mother rushed to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder. Father tried to shoo her away but she wouldn’t budge and he stopped trying and instead held her hand, holding the gun with only his left hand.

“OPEN UP!” one of the male voices shouted from outside, his accent still clearly there. The banging on our door did not cease and the shouting and screams sounded as if they would never end. I sat there, glued to our couch. Mason was getting up, his expression had been slightly curious. He didn’t like the guns, but he was too young to have memories of the police chases and the terrorist attacks that became more frequent, especially along the coast. Carol took his hand, leading him away from the door. I was tense, frozen yet shaking in fear.

“Come on Kiki,” Hope murmured gently, grabbing my hand. My nickname was like a wake-up call. I held my sister’s hand close, never planning on letting go. She smiled at me reassuringly as we ran to the basement door, reinforced since the terrorist attacks became more well known and dangerously close to home. Our running wasn’t quiet, but it drowned out the gunshots, imagined and real. Carol and Mason ran just ahead of us.

“Where’s Mother?” Mason asked as we reached the basement, his voice small and frightened. There was as much tension in his face and voice to match Father, which was scary. This shouldn’t be a problem for a young boy who likes to play with toy cars and chases the neighborhood cats around the street.

When no-one answered his question his lower lip puffed out and started to quiver. Tears welled up in his beautiful blue eyes. I saw Hope open her mouth but then close it, realizing that we all know where Mother is. She decided to stay with Father. The basement door, made of titanium steel, stood in front of us. We stared at it for a few seconds, not believing that we’re actually going to use the basement. It was just a safety precaution, it should’ve stayed a storage closet for the rest of our lives. Carol opened the door, reminding us that it’s not just a storage closet anymore. It was what would save our lives, while this attack would end so many more.

“Go! Get inside,” she urged and I watched helplessly as Carol shoved Mason in, the last of us, and locked the door sealing us in with more darkness than before, if that’s even possible. I heard the passcode being put in as Carol locked all five latches, each slightly different from the one before... leaving herself outside.

Even through the steel door we could hear the splintering of wood and our Mother’s terrified screams. They were cut off sharply, and that could only mean…

Mason started to sob when the gunshots erupted in our home just outside the door, his little body shook as we sat in the darkness.

“I want Mommy,” he whimpered. I can’t see Mason, but I can hear his cries. I dropped Hope’s hand, knowing that she was only holding my hand for me, and I searched for my little brother, feeling around in the dark for his little figure.

When I reached Mason I pulled him into a tight embrace. He struggled for a moment, but stopped, realizing I was there for him. I felt Hope reaching out to me again, pulling me and Mason closer to her. All of us held each other, waiting for the attack to be over… until it wasn’t.

Carol’s sudden shrieks from outside the basement tore at our hearts. I was tempted to let out a cry of my own but Hope, as if reading my mind, clamped a firm grasp over my mouth. They didn’t need another reason to check the basement. Mason began shaking harder as even more gunshots rang out. One here, one there, one made a dent in the basement door. This made me way too appreciative of the steel outline.

A gun clattered to the floor outside, making me jump. I watched as a crimson stain started to spread out beneath the door and trickled into our protective fortress. Then one, two, three, four. The fifth of the basement locks came undone and the door sprung open. Hope, Mason, and I held each other so close, each of us waiting for the end as the last dark silhouette stepped into view. The floor beneath him was slick with blood. Red, red, red…

Father came rushing toward us. We pull him into our huddle, the tang of blood covering him and his clothes. The attackers were dead and gone… but so were Mother and Carol.

Chapter 1:

I wake up gasping, my head spinning. The flashbacks are getting worse, at the very least they aren’t getting better, but I don’t dare tell Father. He’s not the same man he once was. He wouldn’t care, not anymore. I grab my diary from the nightstand and flip on my bedside lamp, my hands shaking in the slight glow. My shirt feels soaked with sweat and my wavy hair sticks plastered to my forehead. I sigh as I pick up my pen.

Dear Diary,

It’s October, to be exact, October 23, 2022. We have thirteen days until the anniversary of the attack. It’s been almost three years and few people in our small town have gotten over it. A little town like Gold River, California shouldn’t have been targeted, but now we have to figure things out.

This town used to be a place where you could watch people laugh, play, and help a neighbor lift a cereal box off one of the high shelves at the stores or markets. Now there’s a heavy curtain no-one seems to be able to move, to find hope and joy once more. There used to be about 8,000 of us, now a fourth of us have left or passed on. It seems as if we’re all waiting for one person to step up and bring us out of this depression, but no-one has been brave enough, not yet.

I’m still learning to cope, to move on. I will not submit to them out of fear or sorrow. No, New Generation  doesn’t get that kind of power over me. Their failures and successes have been all over the news, the deaths horrifying and gruesome, but there were always more failures of theirs than successes, that’s what’s given me hope. Our city has Hope… or at least it used to. She was one of the 2,000 who were murdered, missing, or who left. Many believe she was kidnapped or murdered during the attack and the aftermath of it, but I know this is false. Hope is gone, and we aren’t ever getting her back. She was what the town believed in, what I believed in. Now I’m not so sure. Whatever the case may be, we have to be here now more than ever for each other. We must lift that curtain of depression. We will make it through these times of trial together.

~Anonymous

I look up from my notebook, satisfied. Maybe I’ll become a writer and put this in the papers, not that anyone reads them anymore. They might though, recently the papers have become quite popular. New Generation has us going back to 20th century habits, which is ironic because of their name; New Generation. I sigh, knowing that I’m never going to have the guts to print this diary. It’s too personal, especially considering what’s occurred these past few years. The flashbacks, the nightmares, and a drunk father. No, this isn’t something anyone else gets to read.

“Kendra! Get down here this instant! Your brother’s throwing a fit!” Father calls from downstairs. I open my  bedroom door… and back to reality. Usually Hope or Carol would be here to take care of Mason, but they’re gone. They abandoned me, their little sister. Carol I can understand, not that I want to, but Hope straight-up left and no-one cares, or notices. I just lost my best friend in the whole freakin’ world and people seem to have lost their sense of empathy. Maybe it’s because I’m not the only one who has hardened their hearts to the outside world. I might just be the only fourteen-year old girl though. I make sure to close my door behind me and lock it with the three-pronged key in my gold heart locket. The others jingle, waiting for their chance to be of use. They will get their turns. I don’t want Father to come in and take all my savings. He’d only spend them on gambling and alcohol. Sometimes I think I’m the only sane one in this house anymore. Father’s addiction has been getting worse ever since Hope left. I never believed I would be the oldest girl in the house, much less the family. Now I am. Mother and Carol passed, it’s easier to say than are dead or murdered, and the next oldest Hope… might as well be dead. I thought I might have her at least until she was eighteen, but I was wrong. I was wrong in thinking we were safe in our little, unknown town. I was wrong about a lot of things. Well, now I’m not, and I won’t ever be again. It’s hard not to get things right when you stop making guesses, including educated guesses. From now on I’ll be using facts. Hope taught me that.

My hands are gripping the black stair railing tightly as I fight back tears. Nothing is ever as simple as you think it will be in the beginning. Nothing is ever as easy.

“KENDRALL ELLEN VELASQUEZ-EVERMORE, GET YOURSELF DOWN HERE!” Father yells, reminding me I should be taking care of Mason. I hate being on Father’s bad side, so I rush down the stairs. My hand immediately goes to my necklace as I try to calm my racing hart. I rub my thumb and index finger along the gold yet fading, smooth surface. My tiny bedroom key rattles inside.

When I get down the two flights of stairs from my room, or I guess most would call it the attic, I nearly gag. The air is stale and smells of whiskey and urine, old and new. I wish my body could get used to the smell, no matter how wretched. I mean, shouldn’t it be normal once it’s been a part of your life for almost three years?

“Oh good, you’re here,” Father says as I walk into the kitchen. He’s drinking whiskey by the counter, some of it missing his mouth and dribbling down his unshaven beard. He doesn’t stop drinking to look at me, I’m just a servant now, not a daughter. I have no idea where Mason is though.

“He’s out on the front porch. I don’t need to hear a little boy sniffling and crying,” Father says, as if reading my mind. Just once I wish I could be oblivious of what’s going on around me. I want to go back to that innocent girl I used to be, just for a moment, so I frown and put on my little girl face.

“Why’s he crying?” I ask. Big mistake.

Father throws his whiskey bottle to the ground and I watch as the glass shatters, covering the floor in sharp shards. It twinkles in the fluorescent kitchen light, leaving the floor a mess of yellowish drink and jagged pieces of the bottle.

"Why do you think, little miss heart-of-stone?" he spits on the floor. The color is somewhat yellow like the whiskey and I cringe. I know the reason for all of this too, and I wish it was anything else. I wish I could go back to that little girl.

"I'll be back," I mutter and head to the front porch, where I see Mason sitting, our mother's fancy watch in his hands. He's rubbing his thumbs over the face when I open the door.

"You know it's okay to miss her, right?" I ask, coming up behind him. He jumps up, startled, but quickly settles down once more once he realizes it's just me.

"That's not what Father tells me," he says, sniffling. His eyes are puffy and red, making me feel like a heartless jerk, just as Father said only moments ago. I feel awful. We were never close, me and Mason. I had Carol and Hope... and he had Mother and Father. They were our best friends in the whole world, so I understood completely.

"I don't care what Father said," I tell him gently, saying this for both him and maybe even a little for me.

"He can be mad all he wants," I continue, "he has his alcohol." The word is bitter on my tongue and Mason looks away when I say it. We sit in silence for a while and it feels good. It good to be outside with my little brother, both of us in our own worlds. For once, I feel as though I'm not suffocating in our Father's angry spouts, or the silence at school. I suck in a couple lungfuls of fresh air, smiling for the first time in three years. For once, I am free... that is until Father realizes we're still outside.

He opens the door and it bangs into the exterior of the house, leaving a small indent in the wood. He raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, you done moping about? What I really want to throw in his face is that he has never been done moping about, and he won't be. Alcohol is his freedom, let us have ours.

When Hope first left the people of the city came to us for consolation. She was the perfect citizen, the perfect child, that every town member considered their own. They wanted someone to cry with, someone who would understand their pain.

What they weren't expecting is a family where Hope is the only ray of sun left. Mason tried, I just sat in my room completely numb inside, working up the courage to harden my heart to the outside world. I can't let anyone in anymore. I can't even work up the courage to make eye contact with anyone in this town, not that anyone would dare try after my dad throwing empty beer bottles at them out the front door. I spent the rest of that day cleaning up broken glass and blood stains that ran down our driveway. Maybe Hope was this city's last source of hope, or maybe having her here was just a fantasy, invented to keep away the murderers and psychopaths. A sister wouldn't leave another sister, so this is what I choose to believe. I've always been here with Father and Mason, Mother passed from natural causes, and Hope never existed. My fantasy doesn't live a very long life. Welcome to reality.

Chapter 2:

Father leaves us outside, but I don't wait for very long. He'll expect me back in the house to clean up soon enough. I like to pretend that I'm Cinderella at age fourteen, sweeping away my worries. Hope and I would come up with games after Mother and Carol's passings where we would pretend that we were servants in a billionaire's home. Our backyard garden, now dead, was tended to every morning by the 'Evermore Sisters.' The rooms and stairs were sweeped and buckets of dirty water were thrown outside and we would both come back in the house soaked. Father never noticed, but we always tiptoed anyways. Now it’s just me.

"More like the Evermore Sister now," I mutter under my breath. I pull my lazy butt off the porch stairs. Mason hardly notices. He's still staring at Mother's watch. The silver outline twinkles in the sunlight. I can remember her rubbing it when she was nervous, her bitten nails leaving small scratches here and there.

I remember Mother coming up the stairs to say goodnight and I would whine asking, "Do I really have to go to bed now?" Mother would only nod and laugh, kissing me on the forehead. Then Father would come in, before he ever starting drinking. He would come and sit on the bed I shared with Hope and he would twirl my hair with his piano fingers.

I watch as memories, old and recent, flood my brain. Father, asking me, do you want to dance Kendra? and I would giggle in my little girl voice and take his hands. He taught me to waltz, saying that history such as this is important for young girls, and I believed him.

Mother and Mason would be sitting by the fire playing checkers, Mother letting Mason win every time. And everytime, Mason would scowl and say he could win on his own thank you very much Mother. Everyone knew this wasn't true, including Mason, but we played along each time.

Carol, the most talented musician in the family, except for maybe Father, always played complicated ballads on the piano. She played guitar, a beautiful old guitar. It was basic, yet the prettiest thing I ever saw. Carol promised to teach me to play. Someday, Kiki, someday… I always pretended she never taught me so I wouldn’t become better than her, but she was too good with the music to be beat anyway.

Friends and neighbors would come by to hear her play and I would always clap and say, "That's my sister!" The memories vanish in an instant, and I blink, forgetting that I'm not that little girl anymore. Mason and Mother will never play checkers again, and Carol won't be playing the piano for the neighbors ever again either. Once upon a time this was my life, now it is gone.

I sigh and open the front door, knowing that I'm only stalling for time. You can't change the past, but you can change your future. The glass is still littered all over the floor, and Father's yellow spit wads lie on or in between the shards. I had tried so hard to bury all those past memories, knowing they'll never come true again. We all play our roles in life. They may change, will change, over time, mine better, but this is my role now. I pull out the broom and begin to hum "I believe" by Jackie Evancho. I don't think Jackie ever thought she would experience a war this brutal. I don't think she realized her song held some truth and would be a source of hope when Hope was gone. The only deviation is the prayer. Instead of for everyone else it's for me and my family; it’s for survival. I stop sweeping. The glass shards sit there, winking at me mockingly but I leave them be. Father will only drop another bottle.

I push them into the corner with the broom. My heart is made of steel, of stone, of anything harder than the average heart. It has to be to endure this much pain, but then again, everyone has to break down at some point, no matter their role in life. Mine just happens to be a constant struggle.

"Are you there God?" I finally let myself ask, my voice a mere whisper. I drop the broom on the pile of glass. It fits right in, nicked and scarred from cleaning with me for years. I would fit right in, my heart scarred as it is.

"Are you here for me?" I ask God again. I slide down the wall, waiting for an answer that I doubt will ever come. I let my tears come rushing down, leaving salty streaks down my dirty cheeks. I am not a heartless girl, even if I may seem like it. The scars down my back prove it.

~One Week without Hope

Chapter 3: /two years later/

A loud pounding at the door wakes me up.

“Get the door, Kendrall!” Father shouts from his room. I grumble as I get out of bed, my feet hitting the hard floor.

The stairs creaked as I walked down. They seemed as reluctant as I was to wake up this morning. The pounding on the door increased.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, shut up now!” I shout at the door. My prayers were answered as I reached the landing. I fling the door open, my bed-head curls bouncing everywhere. A man in a crisp black suit stands in my way, slightly unnerved by my scowl. He shifts a clipboard from one hand to the other. We stand there in awkward silence.

I clear my throat. “...yes?” The man gives me a stiff smile.

“I’m here for…” the man pauses, checks the clipboard, and resumes. “I’m here for Mason and Ken… Kendrall?” He pronounces my name wrong, it’s all wrong. It’s supposed to be somewhere between Kendall and Kendra, but he makes it sound like Kendrill. What an ugly name. I cringe.

“I’m Kendrall,” I say, enunciating on the ‘drall’ part of my name. He doesn’t seem to catch on. He rips a couple papers unneatly off his clipboard and hands it to me.

“This is for your father. He is at the moment, umm, how should I put it,” the man asks, but it’s clearly a question he’s asking himself. “Oh, of course,” he says in a smug voice, “your father is unfit to take care of you and your brother.” The smug look, the laughter, it all angered me.

“Who do you think you are?”

"Someone who thinks you and you brother have a better life ahead of you. We'd better get going." I stare at the man. He's still wearing that smug smile. Does he know what I've been through?

"Excuse me?" I look at him. He frowned and sighed.

"You two are coming whether you want to or not. NOW." 

My last thoughts before I leave are, are you there still, God?