Post by Spottedpath on Mar 27, 2015 2:18:26 GMT
I stood in the field that day.
Me alone, myself, reminiscent on memories of the past.
There was one specific memory, you know, that kind of memory?
The kind that always nags on your mind, makes you cringe. . .
Until it unfolds and you remember everything and you feel sick to your stomach.
I think it was Autumn, Fall in the Americas.
I had just gotten home from school, I recall the strong scent of rain that day.
My mother was home, my father however, wasn't.
I always had that itching feeling something was wrong.
Was something really wrong. . . I don't know.
Me alone, myself, reminiscent on memories of the past.
There was one specific memory, you know, that kind of memory?
The kind that always nags on your mind, makes you cringe. . .
Until it unfolds and you remember everything and you feel sick to your stomach.
I think it was Autumn, Fall in the Americas.
I had just gotten home from school, I recall the strong scent of rain that day.
My mother was home, my father however, wasn't.
I always had that itching feeling something was wrong.
Was something really wrong. . . I don't know.
I woke up to the strong scent of iron tang, and I groggily opened my eyes.
There was a sticky red fluid covering my blanket, my floor, and my wall.
I slowly got out of bed, my head pounding.
I walked down the hall, following the trails of blood. . . The iron smell sickening.
At the end of the hall, my parents' corpses laid.
There was a sticky red fluid covering my blanket, my floor, and my wall.
I slowly got out of bed, my head pounding.
I walked down the hall, following the trails of blood. . . The iron smell sickening.
At the end of the hall, my parents' corpses laid.
I muttered unmemorable words to myself, however. . .
I did dart out of the house crying, people staring.
I recall sirens, memories of people asking so many questions.
There was a man, whom was arrested for my parents' murders.
Somehow, somewhere deep inside, I knew it wasn't him.
I stood in the field that day.
Remembering my past, my history, my memories of fresh blood.
I stood in the field that day, in handcuffs.
For these memories, my memories.
Were the start of a chain of murders, and they started when I killed my parents.
I did dart out of the house crying, people staring.
I recall sirens, memories of people asking so many questions.
There was a man, whom was arrested for my parents' murders.
Somehow, somewhere deep inside, I knew it wasn't him.
I stood in the field that day.
Remembering my past, my history, my memories of fresh blood.
I stood in the field that day, in handcuffs.
For these memories, my memories.
Were the start of a chain of murders, and they started when I killed my parents.