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Description
March 27th, 1990

My eyes popped open to a shadow-filled room.  The only lighting was dim and gave a whitish glow to the room, for it was pouring from a muted, old television set.  All was nearly silent.  The only sound to convince me I was awake was the low humming of an aging drying machine across the hall.  Not a very comforting scene, I’ll have to admit, but it was slightly more so than what I awoke from.  At least, here, I was in control.  I could defend myself, scream, run, talk, and even be credible.  And yet…  Something felt strange; strange enough to make me want to go back to my horror-filled dreams.   The dreams in which I lived a life of secrecy, betrayal, disbelief, and, worst of all, murder.  But at least these were only dreams; not rooted in reality.  That’s what I thought.  Who would have known how important a dream could be?  Although something told me that the conversation I had had with Dad the night before wasn’t a dream.  I could only pray it was.

I knew something was up.   I could feel it, smell it, taste, and hear it.  Wait.  I could hear it.  A soft drip, drip, like a leaky faucet in a shallow tub.  Blood dripping into blood.  I knew that’s what it must be.  And soon I would see it.  I grabbed my robe and slippers and threw them on.  Something glowing caught the corner of my eye.  A glow-in-the-dark flashlight.  Perfect.  I looked around for a weapon, just in case those responsible were still around.  A heavy metal hammer.  Brilliant.  I tiptoed up the first set of stairs. Living room.  Broken glass.  Mud. Everywhere.  Someone broke in through the window.  Three someones, it seemed.  Three tracks of mud coming in through the window; three tracks of mud going out through the door.  The sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon.  The coast was clear and it was starting to brighten up outside.  I didn’t need the flashlight or hammer anymore, but I clutched them tight.  I could already see the scene.  I could see the slit in my father’s throat; the bashes in his head.  I could see the kitchen knife sticking out of my mother’s forehead; blood pouring down her face.   I hadn’t even climbed the stairs, but I knew they were dead, already.  I could see the three carrying my brother out through the door; so careless; letting his limbs flail about; hitting his head on the door on the way out.  I rushed up the stairs, forgetting about the footprints; smudging a few on the way up.  I peeked into my brother’s room.  A sign of a struggle.  ‘He may still be alive,’ I thought, tears starting to run down my cheeks.  I stumbled my way into my parents’ room, tripping over my feet in my hurry to get there.  I fell.  Blood.  I landed in blood.  It would have been hard not to; it was everywhere.  On the bed.  In pools on the floor.  On the curtains, ripped aside to provide moonlight for the deed.  Sunlight flooded into the room, providing an eerie feeling of summertime from my preschool days.  An odd sense of content washing over the room.  I dropped my luggage, shed my robe, and climbed onto the bed.  In between my parents.  The place I always used to be when I had a nightmare.  I cried.  I cried into hysteria.  Hyperventilating.  I became crazed.  In a state of shock, I hugged them both; held them tight.  I led myself to believe that they were still alive.  I carried out conversations.  It was a traumatic experience, I’ll tell you.  That kind of a panic attack was uncalled for.  It seemed to last for hours, but was probably just minutes.  Time seems to not pass at all when you spaz out.  I was jolted out of my crazed state of denial when the mirror caught my eye.  There was blood smeared on it.  In that instant, I remembered what had happened.  Slowly the smears came into focus.  On the mirror was a message: ‘We missed you this time, but be assured, your father will get you!’  I remembered the conversation my father had with me the night before.  Could that be what this was about?

Police sirens.  Lights flashing blue and red.  The neighbors must’ve seen the window and called the police.  Footsteps running up the stairs.  The door burst open. My head was throbbing from crying so hard.  I was beginning to get a migraine.  The last thing I remember before passing out from the shock of it all was my uncle saying: “Police!  Come out with your hands up!  You have the right to remain- OH MY GOD!  SIS?”

Description
March 27th, 1990

My eyes popped open to a shadow-filled room.  The only lighting was dim and gave a whitish glow to the room, for it was pouring from a muted, old television set.  All was nearly silent.  The only sound to convince me I was awake was the low humming of an aging drying machine across the hall.  Not a very comforting scene, I’ll have to admit, but it was slightly more so than what I awoke from.  At least, here, I was in control.  I could defend myself, scream, run, talk, and even be credible.  And yet…  Something felt strange; strange enough to make me want to go back to my horror-filled dreams.   The dreams in which I lived a life of secrecy, betrayal, disbelief, and, worst of all, murder.  But at least these were only dreams; not rooted in reality.  That’s what I thought.  Who would have known how important a dream could be?  Although something told me that the conversation I had had with Dad the night before wasn’t a dream.  I could only pray it was.

I knew something was up.   I could feel it, smell it, taste, and hear it.  Wait.  I could hear it.  A soft drip, drip, like a leaky faucet in a shallow tub.  Blood dripping into blood.  I knew that’s what it must be.  And soon I would see it.  I grabbed my robe and slippers and threw them on.  Something glowing caught the corner of my eye.  A glow-in-the-dark flashlight.  Perfect.  I looked around for a weapon, just in case those responsible were still around.  A heavy metal hammer.  Brilliant.  I tiptoed up the first set of stairs. Living room.  Broken glass.  Mud. Everywhere.  Someone broke in through the window.  Three someones, it seemed.  Three tracks of mud coming in through the window; three tracks of mud going out through the door.  The sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon.  The coast was clear and it was starting to brighten up outside.  I didn’t need the flashlight or hammer anymore, but I clutched them tight.  I could already see the scene.  I could see the slit in my father’s throat; the bashes in his head.  I could see the kitchen knife sticking out of my mother’s forehead; blood pouring down her face.   I hadn’t even climbed the stairs, but I knew they were dead, already.  I could see the three carrying my brother out through the door; so careless; letting his limbs flail about; hitting his head on the door on the way out.  I rushed up the stairs, forgetting about the footprints; smudging a few on the way up.  I peeked into my brother’s room.  A sign of a struggle.  ‘He may still be alive,’ I thought, tears starting to run down my cheeks.  I stumbled my way into my parents’ room, tripping over my feet in my hurry to get there.  I fell.  Blood.  I landed in blood.  It would have been hard not to; it was everywhere.  On the bed.  In pools on the floor.  On the curtains, ripped aside to provide moonlight for the deed.  Sunlight flooded into the room, providing an eerie feeling of summertime from my preschool days.  An odd sense of content washing over the room.  I dropped my luggage, shed my robe, and climbed onto the bed.  In between my parents.  The place I always used to be when I had a nightmare.  I cried.  I cried into hysteria.  Hyperventilating.  I became crazed.  In a state of shock, I hugged them both; held them tight.  I led myself to believe that they were still alive.  I carried out conversations.  It was a traumatic experience, I’ll tell you.  That kind of a panic attack was uncalled for.  It seemed to last for hours, but was probably just minutes.  Time seems to not pass at all when you spaz out.  I was jolted out of my crazed state of denial when the mirror caught my eye.  There was blood smeared on it.  In that instant, I remembered what had happened.  Slowly the smears came into focus.  On the mirror was a message: ‘We missed you this time, but be assured, your father will get you!’  I remembered the conversation my father had with me the night before.  Could that be what this was about?

Police sirens.  Lights flashing blue and red.  The neighbors must’ve seen the window and called the police.  Footsteps running up the stairs.  The door burst open. My head was throbbing from crying so hard.  I was beginning to get a migraine.  The last thing I remember before passing out from the shock of it all was my uncle saying: “Police!  Come out with your hands up!  You have the right to remain- OH MY GOD!  SIS?”