This happened a while ago but it still feels like it just happened last night. I’ve been carrying a heavy weight in my chest, and I don’t really know what to do with it.

That day started like any normal day. Everyone was doing their usual things. My brother(19) was out somewhere with his friends, probably drinking. My mother was in the living room watching TV or scrolling through her phone. My father was either with her or outside in the garage working on her old car. And I(18) was just in my room watching a movie on my laptop. It was peaceful. Everything felt normal.

But it didn’t stay that way.

Later in the evening, my father started drinking—nothing new. When he drinks, he has this habit of blasting music in his car, sometimes calling me to come sit with him. That night, I was exhausted and just wanted to sleep. I asked him to turn down the volume, and he did… but he was still loud in other ways. Eventually, the music stopped, and I heard him locking up the car and the garage.

Then he knocked on my door.

“Are you asleep yet?” he asked, clearly drunk. “Can you call your aunt and ask where your brother is?”

He sounded mad which felt strange, because my brother staying out late on weekends had become normal for our family. It’s been tolerated for a long time. So why was he so mad now?

I told him I would call—but I didn’t. I was so tired I fell asleep almost immediately after that.

I woke up later—maybe around midnight—to the sound of shouting. My parents were fighting. I remember my mom yelling at him to leave me alone and just let me go to sleep. She was fed up with how disruptive he was being. Then he came to my room again, asking me again to call my aunt. I must’ve fallen asleep after that, too.

The next time I woke up, everything was different.

It was around 2:30 in the morning, and the shouting was back—but louder. More intense. It wasn’t just my parents this time—my brother was part of it. I stayed frozen in my bed, too scared to open the door. I couldn’t see what was happening, I could only hear.

And then I heard it: crying. Slapping sounds. My brother’s voice, breaking apart. Then—three gunshots.

I screamed. I jumped up, locked my door, and sat in the corner farthest from it, terrified that a bullet would come through and hit me. I couldn’t move. My heart was racing. I didn’t know if my brother was alive.

I heard my mother screaming—pleading—saying things like, “You shot my child. You tried to kill our son.” I couldn’t even process the words. I was frozen just listening and Shaking.

Then my brother’s bedroom door slammed shut. He had locked himself inside, and I could hear him crying. “Daddy, no. No, Baba. I’m sorry.” Over and over as our father tried to break into my brother’s room while destroying the door. It was… gut-wrenching. Like he thought he was going to die. Like he thought apologizing would save him. That moment tore something in me I don’t think will ever fully heal.

My mother managed to pull my father away from our doors, and he was so drunk that he kept saying she should call the police, that he had hurt his kids, that he messed up. And she did. She called the police and called relatives from her side of the family to come get us.

My brother didn’t get shot. We stayed in my parents’ room while we waited, trying to stay quiet and safe. Listening to my father stumble around, still mumbling to himself. I felt like a stranger in my own home. I didn’t sleep that night.

When we came back the next day, it didn’t feel real. Bullet holes in the wall. A damaged door. My father’s car gone. I have just kept walking around like a ghost, reliving the night in my head. Over and over. I couldn’t stop thinking: I warned him. Just days before, I told him he was reckless with his gun when he drinks. That he shouldn’t be playing with it. I never imagined I’d be right in such a horrifying way.

Now it’s been some time, and things have shifted—but not in a way that brings me peace. My brother, who was traumatized beyond belief, has started speaking to our dad again. Only for money. For rides. But it’s still contact. It confuses me. It feels too soon.

My mom still talks to him too—mostly for practical things like bills and groceries. And even though she knows I don’t want to be around him, sometimes I hear them laugh or joke like nothing happened. Like things are fine. But they’re not.

Not for me.

I haven’t spoken to my father since that night. I don’t want to. I don’t know if I ever want to. But part of me wonders… am I wrong? Am I being too harsh for cutting him off completely, even if everyone else seems to be moving on?

Because I haven’t moved on. I’m still there—in that night. In the dark. With my heart pounding, not knowing if someone I love is bleeding behind a door.