Silently

The footsteps in the hall were uneven. A stumble, a correction. The pause at the kitchen doorway—too long. Then, the scrape of the fridge door yanked open. The clink of bottles shifting. A sigh, heavy and wet.

The brothers sat in the dark.

Not by plan. Not by strategy. They had just sat there, long after the TV had gone quiet, long after their mother had whispered, Go to bed,before disappearing behind her bedroom door.

And now he was home. Again.

The younger brother’s fingers tightened around the edge of the couch. His knuckles whitened. He wasn’t looking at his older brother, but he was watching him. Waiting.

The older one hadn't moved. He sat forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped, staring at the dim hallway. His breath came slow, controlled. But his jaw was locked, a muscle ticking near his temple.

The man in the kitchen cursed under his breath. Something tipped over—a bottle, maybe a glass. The fridge slammed shut.

Then silence.

A long, stretching silence.

The younger brother’s eyes flicked toward the knife on the counter. Not far. A few steps.

The older brother’s breath hitched. Just a fraction. Just enough.

He had seen the glance.

The younger brother didn’t look at him. He just swallowed, throat bobbing. The older brother slowly, deliberately, exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh. A warning.

As if to say don’t.

The younger brother pressed his fingers harder into the couch. The fabric bunched beneath his grip. He didn't nod, didn't shake his head. He just sat there, frozen, waiting.

The footsteps in the kitchen shifted. The shuffle of a jacket being tossed aside. Then, a sound—low, guttural, displeased.

A door creaked open. Their mother's.

The younger brother tensed.

The older one rose first. No hesitation. No sound. He moved like a shadow, crossing the room in three steps, standing just beyond the doorway.

A breath.

A shift of weight.

The younger brother followed, slower. His pulse pounded in his ears, in his hands. His whole body felt tight, coiled. Ready.

They could hear her voice now, soft. A murmur. Then his voice, louder. Not shouting. But rough. Mean.

The younger brother looked at the knife again. Then at the older one.

This time, the older brother hesitated. Just for a second.

And in that second, everything shifted.

The younger brother saw it—saw the thought form behind his brother’s eyes. The hesitation. The weight of it.

We can’t.

Or maybe: We shouldn’t.

Or maybe: What if we do?

The younger brother felt something rise in his chest. Anger? Relief? Fear? He didn’t know. He just knew his hands were shaking.

The older brother turned. Slowly. He reached out. Gripped the younger one’s shoulder. Firm. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just there.

A choice.

In the room down the hall, their mother murmured something. A plea. The man muttered back, something slurred. 

Silence.

Long. Stretched.

The older brother let go. The younger one stayed frozen for another breath, then another, before finally stepping back.

Neither of them moved for a long time.

Then, quietly, they both sat back down.

And waited.

The silence stretched.

The boys stayed in the dark, waiting, their bodies coiled tight.

Then their mother’s voice broke the stillness.

“Please, stop.”

Small. Shaking. But clear.

And then—his voice. Rough. Slurred. Dismissive. Not yet angry, but close.

Then the rustling of fabric. The shift of weight. The sound of her trying to move away—barely anything, just a whisper of movement.

And then—his hand. A sharp sound. Not a hit. Not yet. But a grip. A hold.

The younger brother jerked forward. The older one caught his arm.

But then—then—

She cried out.

Not loud. Not a scream. Just one sharp, sudden sound, like something breaking. Not a bone. Not glass. Something else.

And that was it.

The older brother thought he moved first, but his brother was already up.

His grip on the younger one tightened, not to hold him back, but to bring him with him. No hesitation now. No pause.

The knife stayed on the counter.

They didn’t need it.

They were already there, in the doorway, in the room.

The man turned too slow. Too drunk. Too late.

The older brother hit first.

A body hitting a wall is a dull, thick sound. A real, final sound. It is a sound that doesn’t stretch time—it snaps it in half.

The younger brother followed, fists already clenched.

For the first time that night, nothing was silent.

And the choice had been made.