Sure this'll get lost, but I've got an awful experience to share. When I was eleven, my family was moving from New York to North Carolina. Our house is pretty much all the way packed up save for a few things we were going to drive up with us, and we had packed the large majority of into a moving service van that would meet us in NC. We've got one last night in the house before we leave in the morning, and following an afternoon of board games my parents decide they're going to make rounds of the neighborhood and say bye to everyone. They asked if I wanted to come, but being an 11 year old I refused for whatever reason. They left and said they'd be back in a bit.
Fast-forward fifteen minutes, I remember specifically I was playing with those knock-off Lego's called K'Nex on my empty living room floor. I heard a loud thud come from the garage behind me, but thought nothing of it. A couple minutes later, it sounded as if someone was trying to open the sliding glass door from the adjacent room. I peeked my head around the corner, and there was some man I'd never seen before in raggedy clothes accompanied by a woman who was crying??? I was extremely confused. This was in like, 2000 so I didn't have a cell phone and our house phone had already been disconnected. I didn't know what the fuck to do. The man continued to struggle with the door while I freaked out around the corner, until I heard glass break. At that point I ran to the (mostly empty) master bedroom and sat down on pile of boxes that we'd yet to load into our car for the drive to NC. I could hear the people in my kitchen walking around. After a couple seconds of insane panicking, I realized that next to me was my fathers locked handgun box. I had never opened it before, but somehow I knew the code was my dads birthday (same as our garage door code). I opened it, and it was loaded. Long story short, I hid in my parents room for another 5-10 minutes hoping they wouldn't come in and they'd just leave. But they didn't leave. When the man opened the door to the room, I shot him. At eleven years old. The handgun was a .22 and I hit him in the right leg, in his quadricep. I don't really remember much after that, I think I've repressed the memory subconsciously or maybe the shock had something to do with it, I don't know. But all I know is ten seconds later I was alone in the house and waited in the master bedroom until my parents got home.
To this day I have no idea who the guy was, but the police said that the amount of blood would indicate I had hit an artery and they "didn't think he could've gone far". As far as I know, they never found him -- we ended up postponing our move by another day but left after the police told us they didn't need anything further from us. Still haunts me to this day, I don't know if I killed someone or what, or what his intentions in my house were.