Young Writers Society

I stood in my bedroom staring out the window; the bright summer sun touched my skin but never warmed it. A large black van pulled up outside the house and the driver, a man dressed in black, got out and hurried to the door. A few seconds later I heard the door open and close. A woman sat in the kitchen waiting for us to come home.

The crashing started getting louder by the second. It was soon joined by yelling. Glass broke and hard wooden objects were thrown against the wall. The commotion moved to the other side of the house into the kitchen. Before I could move I heard her scream followed by a muffled gun shot.

Footsteps moved quickly to the front door. Opened, but never closed, the door swayed in the breeze. I tried to get a look at the man’s face but he never looked at me. All I could see was the dark red blood that now covered his shirt. He left the front yard, moving behind the house to look for witnesses.

It wouldn’t be long before he came here. With no remorse I felt a sudden urge to run to the kitchen. I ran as quietly as I could, down the stairs and through the house. There was glass and debris everywhere. The wall was covered in large holes caused by plates, chairs and anything else they could get their hands on.

Bloodied footprints lead from the kitchen and went straight through the living room. I knew what was coming next but it was like my feet had a mind of their own. As I got closer to the kitchen I saw the stream of blood slithering towards me.

I rounded the corner and supressed the urge to scream. She lay in a pool of blood, surrounded by the disasters of the struggle. I tried to walk closer but the blood covered my bare feet gathering between my toes.

I took a step backwards but hit something hard. I slowly turned around already knew what was coming. The scratchy wool of a sweater made my skin crawl. After a thousand dreams and nightmares it still shook me to the bone. I turned around staring at his blood stained shirt and screamed.