I watch my baby sister from across the lawn. She has her back to me, soft breeze lilting the tips of her yellow hair. I want to creep closer, but I cannot. A shiver is tracing the contours of my spine as I worry my raw lower lip.
She sits so beautifully still.
My breath is held. My fingers tighten around the knife in my hand, blood silently trickling from where there is too much flesh pressed to the blade. It slides down into the grass causing an almost black splatter in the warm sunlight.
Mother and father are lying in the kitchen. Their throats are cut and their eyes wide with preserved screams. My hand is not shaking.