There was this boy.

He was the eldest of his siblings, the first born out of eight.

It was a Thursday afternoon and he was walking home, hands buried into the pockets of his sweatshirt, hood hovering over his dark eyes. Rain pattered onto his back, sinking into his clothes as his shoes slapped muddy puddles, water spearing through his old runners and soaking his socks. He didn't care.

He found himself in front of his time-worn home, which had toys and rusty bicycles cluttering the yellow lawn. When he jogged up the staircase leading him up the front door, he stopped, released a deep breath, then pressed his hand against the doorknob only to twist it and step inside of his house.

The minute he stepped past the door, the stench of smoke attacked his nose. He breathed out a sigh and cursed under his breath. His brother had been smoking again. "Jack?" he called. Silence.

He shouted for his parents and the names of his younger siblings, but no one replied except for the soft and distinct voice of his four-year-old sister, Grace.

Ringlets of messy blonde hair surrounding her face, she appeared from a corner, a smile split across her lips.

"Wesley!" she grinned, running towards him and wrapping her arms around his leg.

He smiled, a warm feeling spreading in his chest. He loved his little sister. She was the only thing he could possibly look forward to whenever he had to go home. 

"Where's Callie?" he asked. 

Callie was the second oldest of the siblings. She had a twin brother, Jack. The two were fifteen, soon to be sixteen. Next, there were Ella and Clyde. Ella was thirteen and Clyde was eleven. They were both his step-siblings. Then there was Violet who was eight and Mae, who was six. Then, of course, there was the youngest, Grace, and the other child on the way. 

Wesley had so many siblings, his friends couldn't even keep count.

"She took Jack grocery shopping with her," Grace said.

"And Mom and Dad?" Wesley asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"What about the others?"

"Um..." She shrugged again. "I don't know. School?"

He sighed, "Okay, well--"

A knocking at the door cut him off. Grace ran over to answer it, but Wesley caught her. "Wait," he said sternly.

He approached the door and placed his hands against the smooth surface of it, bringing his face up to the peephole. Through it, he saw a familiar face. His eyes trailed along the person's body, wondering what they were doing at such a time. They were standing, waiting, looking a little nervous. Then, Wesley caught a glimpse at the weapon in their hand. His blood froze.

He backed away from the door, bumping into Grace.

"Who is it?" she questioned.

"Grace, go to your room. Don't come out unless I say so."

"What? Why?" 

"Go to your room."

"But what did I do?" she asked, feeling her throat tighten. She didn't like it when Wesley raised his voice. It reminded her of their father.

The person's fist pounded against the door. Wesley released a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Grace, go hide and call the police."

"But--"

"Just do it!" he hissed, handing her his cell phone and pushing her away. She stumbled across the living room and fell behind the couch, pressed in between the worn material and the wall.

"I can hear you," boomed the voice through the door. "I know you're in there. Let me in. We need to talk."

Wesley could feel sweat beading on his forehead, anxiety swelling in his chest as his heartbeat pulsed inside of his ears. He knew why the person was there. It dawned on him all at once. 

--

Hiding behind the couch, Grace peeked very carefully to observe the situation. She wiped her tears and tried to steady her breaths. With only her forehead and eyes visible, she watched the event with concern and confusion. She didn't know what was going on, but she knew that it was bad.

She watched as her brother brushed his fingers along the cold, metal doorknob, reluctant to open it. He did, though, and as the door swung open, she caught a glimpse at the eyes of the person standing before her brother. They were red-rimmed and blank as if every piece of sanity had been washed out of them. The person's arm was stretched out, a gun held firmly between both hands. "I really wish I didn't have to do this, Wesley."

"Would you care to elaborate?" he said. 

Right then, her brother seemed confident. But she could tell by the shaking of his fingers on the doorknob and the slight twitch in his expression that he was afraid.

"You know too much."

"I won't tell. I've already promised you."

"I can't risk it. You don't understand. I can't have you know. I can't risk it. It's too much."

"Please," Wesley said under his breath. "My lips are sealed, I promise."

"I don't want to have to do this, Wesley. But I have to."

"No, you don't. You don't have to. We can sort this out. We can get you help."

"Get me help?" At this, the person breathed out a half-hearted laugh. "I don't need help, Wesley. What I need is you gone."

With that, a loud noise went off, echoing through the house. Grace screamed and clamped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened at the sight of her brother collapsing, clutching onto his wounded leg. She fumbled for the phone Wesley had handed to her earlier but her hands were trembling and she felt anxiety twist into a tight squeeze just below her ribcage. She felt like she was suffocating, with her heart pounding loudly and her fingers struggling to dial for help.

That was when the person's eyes turned towards the couch. Grace's heart dropped.

The person approached her carefully, tilting their head to the side. "You have someone else here?" they asked. 

Wesley didn't answer. He just groaned, the pain licking its way up his leg and burning unbearably - like it was on fire. Pressing their cold and sweaty hands against Grace's arm, the person yanked her away from behind the couch. Grace squeezed her eyes shut, trying to drown out everything that was happening. It was something she'd practiced often in their household, but right then, she was unable to. The sound of her brother's voice sent a deep, sharp pain spearing into her.

"Grace!" he whimpered. 

When she opened her eyes, she found herself being held in front of him. She caught a glimpse at his blood, stretched out across the floor, pooling under his leg. "Wesley!" she cried. She tried to wiggle out of the person's grasp, kicking and screaming. "Let me go! Let me go!"

"Grace," Wesley breathed. "Everything will be fine, okay? Just breathe. It'll be okay."

"You're bleeding!" she screamed.

"I'm fine, Grace... I'm fine, I promise you." He forced a smile upon his lips, but Grace could tell by the dullness in his eyes that he wasn't fine - that it wasn't going to be okay. She felt a wall of stress close in on her. She couldn't breathe. 

"I'm sorry, Wesley. I'm sorry! I tried to keep quiet, it won't happen again! It won't happen again, I'm sorry!"

"Shh, it's okay," he said calmly. "It's okay, Grace."

The person brought the weapon closer to Grace.

A yell ripped out from Wesley's throat, pleading for Grace to be let go. "No!" he shouted. "Please! Stop!"

Grace screamed, tears streaming down her face. She could feel her heart racing, adrenaline pumping through her veins. With every ounce of strength she could find, she managed to kick and punch until she dropped to the floor, quickly scrambled up and bolted away. She was dizzy, though; her surroundings were blurry and it seemed as though the world was spinning around her. This couldn't be real, she thought, and instead of getting anywhere, she stumbled into a wall.

The person grabbed onto her arm, their grip firm and tight. Yanking on her hair, she continued to scream as they lifted her up and slammed her head against the wall. Grace went limp, her blonde hair suddenly tangled with blood. Wesley whimpered and cried as he crawled over to her. He didn't even feel the pain in his leg anymore. He cradled her in his arms, doubling over, his shoulders shaking, his mind still processing everything happening around him.

The person wasn't done, though. They walked over to Wesley and grabbed his hair, twisting it and yanking his face upward to face them, pressing the weapon to his head. "You see what you've made me done? You're going to pay for this, Wesley."

The person's hands were shaking.

"Do it!" he dared. "Kill me! I don't care anymore!"

The person kneeled down next to him, remaining silent.

"Do it!" Wesley yelled again.

The person didn't listen. Instead, their grip grew tighter as they cried, "How did you know? Who told you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Tell me!"

Suddenly, anger and fury contorted his face. He glanced at his sister, glanced at the killer and spat. "You're a fucking monster!"

"Don't say that. Don't you fucking say that to me, Wesley!"

"You're an idiot. You think by killing me off, people won't know what you've done?"

"We'll see." 

They pulled the trigger.

With an ear-splitting noise, Wesley Shepherd collapsed as the bullet ripped through him. For a minute, the murderer just stared blankly at him. They didn't feel any remorse or guilt - just pure adrenaline. They crouched down next to him, observing him for a minute. He was dead. They let out a deep, shaky breath and got up, dusting themselves off and straightening their posture. Then they left his home, without a trace of evidence that they were there.

Soon, sirens approached the neighborhood. 

The whole neighborhood crowded around his home, including the very person who had killed him. His friends and family watched as his body got carried away, some screaming, some crying, and some with no emotion visible on their faces whatsoever. None of it was expected. 

Wesley Shepherd was dead, without a single mark of evidence on who killed him.

Except for the fact that his little sister, Grace Anna Shepherd, was still breathing.