I felt my blood run cold. I watched as he pulled the trigger and the bullet lodged itself into my mother's chest. Blood, crimson red, seeped into the front of her blouse, staining a permanent image into the back of my mind. A scream ripped itself from my throat as tears flooded down my cheeks. My mother's eyes caught mine for one last time and I watched as the light faded from them. She fell to the ground –dead like my father. Their lifeless bodies were stained red all over.
He finally turned to me. His blue eyes were cold and unfeeling. The screaming finally stopped –my throat too tight to let any sound out. He pointed his gun at me and I turned and fled, ducking as I ran down the corridor. I heard a gunshot and the shattering of glass windows. I was lucky. He had missed. I felt the glass rain down around me and I heard him curse loudly. I continued running, the glass shards painfully cutting my feet. Tears streamed down my face and I rushed down the stairs. I heard heavy footsteps following me, hot in pursuit. Another gunshot. I felt a searing pain in my shoulder blade. I had been shot. I cried in pain and my tears blurred my vision. I kept running –out the door of my manor and into the night. Hot blood ran down my back, down my arm. I heard shouting. I continued running, my breath rattling in my chest, fear for my life and hurt compelling me to go on, to run as far away as possible from that place. From my mother's dead body. From the man that had killed father. From the gun that would claim my life. From the memories and the stabbing pain in my heart. I ran. On and on. For minutes. For hours. I fled down the rough countryside road, away from my manor. My head pounded from fear, blood loss, and the lack of oxygen. My heart screamed that this was all but a horrible nightmare that I would soon wake up from, but the searing pain in my left shoulder and the blood that continued to trickle down my body told me otherwise. How long had I been running for? Two hours? Three? Five? I stumbled from exhaustion and landed face first onto the ground. I let out a strangled sob as I lay there on the road. I'm going to die. Images and sounds flashed through my mind –my father's lifeless body, the gunshots, and the glassy look in my mother's eyes. I let out another sob. I'm going to die. In comparison to all that had just occurred, the thought of death felt somewhat comforting. As the adrenaline in my body began to wear off, I finally started to feel the cold chill in the air. I'm going to die. The tears slowly began to stop. I shivered from the cold and as I did so, a stab of pain shot up the left side of my body. I gasped in in agony, my right arm clutching at my shoulder. I'm going to die. I could feel the fresh blood seeping out of the wound, trickling through the gaps in my fingers. The sharp metallic scent of my blood lingered in the air. I'm going to die. I pulled my right hand off my shoulder. There was no point in trying anyways. I was so, very tired. My eyelids fluttered and closed. All I wanted was for the night to end. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die! This was my last thought, ringing in my head, as my world went black.