CHAPTER 9

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Not only was that the sound of the deafeningly loud clock in Miguel's father's bedroom, but it was also echoed by the sound of Miguel's pounding heart. Curled up in a foetal ball in the corner of the room, the adrenaline soon wore off and fear finally started to kick in. He had begun to tremble furiously, and tears had begun to stream down his face. Unimaginable horrors were going on downstairs. He knew exactly what had happened to his sister, he heard the two bangs and knew that she wasn't lucky enough to evade two bullets, and for all he knew, his father was about to meet the same fight. That primal human instinct: fight or flight, and Miguel had chosen the latter. He hid in the bedroom, trying to sound out any trace of noise coming from downstairs, any sign that his father was still up and fighting. He could hear nothing though, nothing but the sound of his booming heart and his hyperventilating breath.

Miguel's head swiveled around the room over and over again, his eyes darting around like a stray animal, and they eventually fell on a framed photo his father kept on the side table by his bed. It was a photo of all three of them together that Manuel had taken a few days into Miguel's stay in Mexico. They had barely known each other 3 days, and his father had already taken that leap of faith and gotten the photo printed. Because that was exactly the kind of person he was, and the kind of person Miguel was too, or at least who Miguel tried to be. They were both kind and caring to even those they barely knew. They both wore their hearts on their sleeve and treated others with blind trust, even if they had done nothing to earn it in the first place.

Miguel picked up the photo and hugged it tightly to his chest. He knew that there was a chance he would never see either of them again, and it was killing him to just sit here and lie in wait. Seconds dragged by excruciatingly slowly, as Miguel waited for his father to come into the room. He felt like he was in hell, trapped in a hell that, try as he might, he couldn't shake himself out of. His mind and sense felt like it had shattered in a million pieces, and he was split between what was going on downstairs, and what was going on up here. At one point, Miguel felt himself sprint over to the ensuite bathroom and hurl in the toilet, unable to take the overwhelming nerves for much longer. A collection of sweat and tears gathered at the bottom of his face and dripped onto the carpet with more velocity than if he had poured a glass of water on his head. He couldn't take this much longer, that was for sure. He was struggling not to black out from the unique, overwhelming bundle of nerves that felt like they were eating him life. He needed a sign. He needed ANYTHING that could give him even the slightest hint about what was going on. Then, he got it.

BANG!

Miguel shot out of bed, sweating bullets from the nightmare. He had barely been in bed for half an hour, but that was all it took to be transported back to that house. Instantly, all of those feelings that he had felt came rushing back, stabbing through his system like he was being burned from the inside out. For a brief moment, he genuinely thought he was back in that moment, and he needed to stand up and walk around to prove to himself that he was okay, that he was home. However, try as he might, he wasn't able to get up. He was so entangled and tied up in his blanket that it had wrapped around him like a tomb. Feeling more and more panicked, Miguel could feel the fear and vomit begin to rise, and he barely managed to make it to the bathroom before it found its way past his throat.

Miguel hurled his guts out, before standing back up and facing the bathroom mirror. Standing trembling, sweating and without a shirt on, there was no hiding his reflection. He looked at it and absolutely loathed what he was seeing. Putting aside the bloodshot eyes, the flaming-red nose and the tear-stained cheeks, Miguel looked down at his torso and couldn't help but scowl at the person staring back at him. As he stared deep inside him, he realised something: he was a monster. His core was rotting like a shrivelled apple and from it, black sludge seemed to pump out. As he stared, horrified, at the creature opposite him, he remembered what had happened. It was his fault. All his fault. He had chosen flight over fight, and now look what had happened! He was sure as hell paying for it now…

BANG!

Hearing the newest gunshot sent Miguel into shivers so powerfully it was like he was having a seizure. What was that? Well, he knew exactly what that was. Now that he had heard it once, it was blood curdlingly unmistakable. But who had shot the bullet? Was his dad, putting whatever monster had attacked them 6 feet in the ground? Or was it his dad who had taken the bullet, putting the end to an innocent life that had spent so long trying to be redeemed?

Miguel didn't know, but he knew he couldn't go another second without finding out. Standing up and beginning to run around, Miguel looked for something, anything he could use as a weapon. If it was indeed his father who had been shot, he knew that the shooter's next move was probably to come upstairs and look for him. After a while, Miguel found his way over to his father's unlocked safe, and when he opened it, he reached to the very back of the felt-lined box to pull out a grey handgun…

It was cold. That was the first thought Miguel had as he held a gun in his hand for the first time. It was so cold, for something that, at a moment's notice, could fire a bullet into a fellow human being and cause them to drop dead on the spot, ending a life in an instant. The tremor running from the highest strands of hair on Miguel's head to the tips of toes instantly became more violent, to the point where Miguel had to move his finger away from the ominous trigger to avoid firing the gun by accident. Sure Miguel had fought to the death before, the school fight being one example, but this was different somehow. Holding a weapon felt completely and utterly different to fighting with his bare hands, and not in a good way. It automatically escalated his fear. Whenever he had been in hand to hand combat in the past, there was always a small part of him that had thought, that had hoped, that the fight could be resolved without anyone getting hurt. But with this gun, it meant only one thing: it was his life or theirs, with no other possibilities.

All of sudden, Miguel heard a new sound for the first time. It wasn't a gunshot. No, it was much, much quieter. It was the sound of heavy footsteps mounting the stairs, getting ever closer with every passing moment. Miguel took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. Okay, Miguel, you need to remain calm, he told himself. There's a 50% chance that this is your dad, telling you that everything's okay and he's gotten rid of the shooter. No need to focus on what the other 50% could be. It's your dad, Miguel told himself again and again and again as he heard the footsteps walk right outside the door. You're going to be okay. It's your dad…

Miguel barely had time to raise the gun up before at that moment, the door to the bedroom finally swung open…

As Sam walked into the familiar, pitch-black apartment, the first thing that she noticed was that it was eerily silent. There was clearly nobody but Miguel in there, but Sam was thankful for that. Maybe he'd feel more comfortable sharing with her if he knew that it was just them and not anyone else. Sam knew that Miguel was holding something back from her at Golf-n-Stuff, and seeing Hawk's message had only been a confirmation of that.

Reading the message, Sam had almost had a heart attack on the spot. Miguel had been in a fight? He had been beating the crap out of Kyler? Sam knew that although Kyler definitely deserved every bad thing coming to him for the things he had done, the worrying part was the fact that Miguel had been the one to attack him. Miguel wasn't an aggressive person, or at least he hadn't been since the day he had left Cobra Kai, so she knew that whatever had happened to him had definitely shook him to his very core, to the point where he was doing something like that. If only he would open up and tell her what, maybe she could help him.

The apartment was completely dark, other than a dim light that was coming from the bathroom, where the door was slightly open. Assuming that Miguel was in there, Sam slowly walked towards it and sure enough, when she walked inside, she found her staring right at Miguel's back.

He hadn't noticed her there yet. In fact, he seemed like he was caught in some kind of trance where he was completely removed from reality, but as Sam looked over Miguel's shoulder into the mirror, her heart stopped. Literally stopped. Just stopped being in an instant, and causing Sam to nearly pass out in shock. There was no mistaking what it was. Miguel wasn't wearing a shirt, so she could see perfectly that small scar on Miguel's abdomen, almost a perfect circle. There was only one thing that could have caused that…

At that moment, Miguel finally noticed her presence. And for a moment, he was confused by her pale expression, but then he realized and his eyes widened in alarm. Turning to face her and quickly trying to grab his discarded shirt on the bathroom, he felt his arm caught by Sam and squeezed so hard he felt like he permanently lost circulation in his hand.

"Sam, I…"

"Do. Not. Move." Sam's commanding voice was filled with such menace, filled with such fury that Miguel immediately obeyed. She had begun to tremble in anger, and Miguel was rooted to the spot in fear. Two years knowing her and Miguel had never even seen her close to this angry. For good reason too. Because Miguel hadn't shared with her something that had happened to him in Mexico that he was hoping she would never find out. He was hoping the scar would heal and she's be none the wiser. That wasn't the case though, and Miguel closed his eyes for a moment, terrified at what Sam was about to throw at him. Would she hit him? Curse him out? Storm out of the apartment and never come back?

"Sam, I can explain…" Miguel began, but Sam's thunderous look instantly shut him up. She didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to react. The rage coursing through her veins was unlike anything she had ever felt before. However, when she spoke again, it was in a tone that definitely did not match the way she was feeling inside. It was in a much smaller voice, quiet, her eyes darting from his face to his abdomen over and over again, praying that this was fake. That it was some kind of twisted joke.

"You… you were shot?"