She hadn't meant to walk in on her father;

she'd only wanted a glass of milk before bed.

But as the door swung open her ears were greeted

with a deafening explosion.

Blood and brains painting the walls, a dress, her face.

Blood-flecked pigtails quivered,

mouth gaping at a landscape in hell.

She slowly steps to the side of her slumped hero.

Gingerly reaching out to those strong, gentle hands;

recoiling at their warmth, now unholy.

She bends as if guided by another to retrieve

the steel scythe that has already harvested one.

Rivulets of her pain roll down and away

as she places the barrel just as she was taught.