They never saw me.

So I made them remember me.

The first sound was sharp—like a flag snapping in the wind. They didn’t know what it was. They never do. It took the second one to make their heads jerk like broken toys.

The click-pop. The echo. The sudden blood on white shirts. Some of them just stood there, blinking, as if they couldn’t understand that pain could visit them.

I moved like a shadow with teeth. I knew every porch step, every hiding place. The nice house with the windchimes? Gone quiet. The one with the fake deer in the lawn? Red now. Red with truth.

I wasn’t angry. Not really. Anger is a luxury for people who think they still have something to lose. I was… clear. For the first time in years, the buzzing in my skull aligned. No more static. Just purpose.

I saw a boy. Curly hair. Big eyes. He looked like I used to. He died quick.
One mercy. That’s all you get.

I’m writing this in what used to be the preacher’s garage. It smells like gasoline and soap. I can still hear the sirens somewhere far off, like dogs howling at a moon they’ll never catch. They’ll come. They always do. But I’m done hiding. The hive has been cleansed. Laid in a body bag and dragged to the outskirts of existence.

I told them I existed.

Now the world will decide what that means.