[ That deep dark red stains your shoes as you swing open the door and step right into it, giggling about something with your brother as the two of you have just been dropped off from a birthday party. Your spirits are high, uplifted by pizza and cake and songs.
But an acrid, metallic smell hits the both of you almost immediately, and the two of you look at one another, identical expressions of fear and uncertainty. Your twin steels himself as he takes a step forward to call out for your parents, and it nudges you into action too as you shut the door behind the both of you and come face to face with your mom on the ground, surrounded by a pool of congealed blood.
...You only recognize her by the clothes she's wearing, and it takes your brother's hand on your shoulder to keep you from passing out. Choking back a sob, the two of you call out for your dad, but it doesn't take long to come across him behind the couch, face down in a pool of his own blood. Much like your mother, his clothes are the only real way you can be sure it's him.
"911, right? That's who we call?"
You nod as your vision starts to go blurry with tears, and your brother runs to the phone. It's impossible not to feel like the entire room is closing in on you, especially as you finally notice the evidence of a struggle that occured—a discarded fireplace poker near your mom, a chair or two upturned, droplets of blood on the carpet...
Deciding you can't take it anymore, you go to your brother to listen to him make the call. ]
cw violence/blood, familial death
But an acrid, metallic smell hits the both of you almost immediately, and the two of you look at one another, identical expressions of fear and uncertainty. Your twin steels himself as he takes a step forward to call out for your parents, and it nudges you into action too as you shut the door behind the both of you and come face to face with your mom on the ground, surrounded by a pool of congealed blood.
...You only recognize her by the clothes she's wearing, and it takes your brother's hand on your shoulder to keep you from passing out. Choking back a sob, the two of you call out for your dad, but it doesn't take long to come across him behind the couch, face down in a pool of his own blood. Much like your mother, his clothes are the only real way you can be sure it's him.
"911, right? That's who we call?"
You nod as your vision starts to go blurry with tears, and your brother runs to the phone. It's impossible not to feel like the entire room is closing in on you, especially as you finally notice the evidence of a struggle that occured—a discarded fireplace poker near your mom, a chair or two upturned, droplets of blood on the carpet...
Deciding you can't take it anymore, you go to your brother to listen to him make the call. ]