I cry for her. He never should have touched her, while the woman who should have been protecting her and keeping her safe, just helplessly stood by and watched. She was innocent…just a child. She is gone now, but he has memories of her…in the basement, in the pool house…and in the woods. All I have is a pretty ceramic bowl with her ashes and the guilt of not finding out sooner and saving her. As I kneel down to check for a pulse, the bodies of my mother and father lay awkwardly on the ceramic tiled floor. Blood has pooled around their chests and heads, where the bullets viciously invaded their bodies. I loved her. She was my friend. She was my baby sister.
125 words exactly
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