He shouted something and, before she could register it, she lashed out, hand going out, the energy releasing from her arms, traveling down to her hands.

The hand he’d crushed spasmed as the energy ran through every damaged part, until she thought her hand might come apart in pieces. The darkness escaped, loud and chaotic, and with the pain in her hand, some went wide, striking the fireplace. The force of it knocked her off her feet, into the table beside the couch.

But enough struck him. It caught her father’s lower chest, his pelvis, his legs, the floor, the hand that held the poker and the poker. It twisted away everything that it touched, and flecks of her father were scattered across the living room and into the dining room. Bits of her dad splattered her mother. Bits splattered herself.

His upper body fell. His jaw moved, but the eyes didn’t.

She stared over at him.

She felt so cold inside. None of it seemed real. Meaty bits of her dad were flowing out of his chest cavity. Floorboards had been ripped up and splintered and lots of the bloody bits were sloughing off into the holes.

Bloody bits were sloughing off of her. She wiped at one with her hand, and something snapped across her hand, pinky to thumb. The energy slapped her across the head, loud and blinding.

Hair whipped around and settled. A white lock lay across her face, and she didn’t dare touch it in case it happened again.

“Ashley,” her mother said. “Don’t look. Please. Don’t look, just come to me, okay honey?”

Ashley felt like she was going to pee herself. She had a moment where she felt horribly off balance, like she couldn’t stand straight. In the following moments, she had to convince herself she was sprawled against the table by the couch. Not even standing.

“I’m hurt, honey. Help me, and we’ll help you.”

Ashley started to move. She felt tension in her arms with every movement of her hands, like rubber bands being drawn tight. She stopped.

“Ashlet,” her mother said. Something she’d called Ashley when Ashley had been little.

With renewed effort, Ashley worked her way to a standing position. She felt the pain in the side of her face, her hand, her scalp. She moved as best as she could without moving her hands a lot, balling them up into fists. Her forearm rested against the arm of the couch.

She had to navigate the long way around as she circled the hole in the floor and the pieces of Dad.

She nearly slipped on a bloody smear, and then the feeling of that underfoot made everything feel very real. Her knees went out under her, and she fell to the ground. Tension danced across her hands and through her arms as her hands pressed against the ground.

“It’s okay,” her mother said.