She carried on.
Like nothing happened. Like nothing was said. Or nothing that was in any way at all noteworthy at the very least.
Apparently, I'm alone, I guess I'm the odd one out, speechless in my horror, my shock - feeling a sickening, sinking feeling churning in my gut.
That slip of paper, with those unintelligible scribbles inscribed metaphorically spelling out her demise - and Dad had it all this while.
I tried picturing it for a moment - that haunting prospect in its most literal sense, and I saw a man holding a tainted knife in a blood-drenched grip, lying at his feet was his wife's body… the life ebbing out from her eyes in a thickening, deepening pool of dark crimson.
That nauseating feeling reached a peak and I had to wrap a hard grip around a stable gate just to keep myself steady.
