I looked back and saw the eyes of my mother as I was dragged away. They were wide and unblinking. She wasn’t smiling, something I had never seen her do until that moment. I looked back at my father, who was pulling me away from her by my hand, his grasp tight and painful, but I didn’t shout in pain, something was holding my scream back. It could have been the look on my father’s face, his cold, absent stare that was fixed on the open door in front of us, or the look on my mother’s face, still unmoving and mouth open in a continuous scream, although I can't recall hearing one. Or it could have been the trail of blood that dripped from the end of the knife in my father’s other hand. I didn’t pull away, didn’t shout or cry, because I knew what had happened. Even then, my young mind could see the blood slowly spilling from my mother, see her hand over it, her muscles now limp and sagging, resting against the floor.

 

As we reached the front door, my father pushed me away from the door, ordering me to stand there. I did as I was told, but as he started to fondle with his key, his motions manic and wild, my eyes landed back on my mother, and I saw the carnage for the first time. she was on her side, one hand over her wound and the other outstretched towards me. Her glossy brown hair was now sprawled out around, slowly absorbing blood and wrapping around one another. Her eyes were still wide and blank, I could no longer see the spark I had done earlier, and I knew she was dead. As I came to my conclusion, my father gripped my wrist again and dragged me to his car. He tossed the knife away, far into the bushes beside him and threw me into the car. Not bothering to check on me, he started the car and he drove away, leaving the door open, leaving my mother to stare into the night, alone.