There it was again. A heavy drop, like a bag of yam hitting the floor. Then the scream, sharp, hoarse, cut too short, as if swallowed back out of fear before it could fully escape. Lola froze where she stood in the corridor, her school bag sliding slowly down her shoulder.

She didn’t need to peek. She already knew.

Mama was on the floor again.

The smell of stale cigar and alcohol drifted from the open parlour door. Lola took a step forward, then stopped. Her heart pounded, not from fear of him. That fear had long turned into something else. Something darker. Something she could no longer name.

Through the crack in the door, she saw him, her worst nightmare, her stepfather, Chief. Shirt half-buttoned, stomach hanging over his belt. And Mama, on the floor, trying to shield her face with both arms as another slap cracked against her skin.

"Stupid woman!" he barked. "You think being my wife  gives you a voice?"

"Please..." Mama cried, blood dripping from her lip. "Please Chief, I'm begging you."

That was it.

Lola pushed the door wide open. "Stop it!"

He paused, surprised to see her. Then he smiled, but there was nothing kind about it. “Your mother needs correction, and I’m doing what’s right. You better shut that mouth and get out of here.”

But Lola didn’t move. Her fists trembled by her sides. Her voice, when it came again, was smaller. "You're going to kill her."

"And what if I do?"

Mama’s eyes met hers then, one swollen, the other wide with panic. “Go inside, Lola. Please. Don’t make this worse.”

Worse?

What could be worse than watching your mother beg a man to stop punching her? What could be worse than being fed with blood money and wearing bruises like perfume?

Her eyes scanned the room. Then she saw it.

The drawer. Slightly open. The black handle of Chief’s pistol, sticking out like it was waiting.

Her legs moved before her thoughts caught up. She reached for it. Chief noticed a second too late.

“Lola!” Mama screamed. “Don’t!”

The first shot echoed through the house like thunder cracking open a tomb.

Chief staggered. One hand pressed against his ribs. But he didn’t fall. He turned to charge at her, a wounded animal, fury dripping from his eyes.

The second shot came quicker. This time, he dropped flat on the floor.

Silence filled the room. Mama crawled toward him, screaming his name, slapping his chest as if he could wake up. “No! No no no no! What have you done?!”

“I was protecting you,” Lola whispered, the gun still hot in her hand. “He was killing you.”

“You killed him! You killed him, Lola!”

Mama scrambled to her feet and grabbed her phone. "You're going to jail. You’ll rot in there like your father did! Just like him!”

That name.

Her father.

The one who was arrested when she was five. Who never came home. Who died behind bars for a crime he never committed. Wrong place. Wrong time. The system never listened.

Now here she was, wrong again. But this time, with blood on her hands.

Her mother turned, dialing. Her voice, sharp. “Hello? Hello? Is that the police?”

Something broke inside Lola. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. Shook her head like she could rewind it.

Lola raised the gun again.
One breath in. One out.

The third bullet didn’t ring in her ears. Only silence.

Mama turned.

And screamed.

Lola’s body hit the floor. Eyes wide open. Tears still fresh.

A single hole in her temple. A quiet end.