My Lit paper this week, please tell me what you think blog - timmy1308

I’m a lucky guy, you know? I mean, most guys don’t get a family like I do. My wife is beautiful, and I have three beautiful children. It’s time for dinner, and I sit down. My wife is making roast chicken, not my favorite meal. My kids like it, in fact, they love it. Why do they love it, and I don’t? They shouldn’t. We eat, I eat my potatoes first. I always eat the grains first on Tuesday. My eldest daughter comes home, she brought a boyfriend. He says hello, I hate him already. She says he’s great, he isn’t. His face is wrong. We clear the table, I make a coffee. Children go to sleep, while my wife and I read together. We got to bed, sleep is wonderful. I dream, but it is not a good dream. I dream of a desert, but the sun is red. I’m moving quickly, I don’t know why. I wake up by the sound of a scream. It’s my wife. I hear sobs. She is crying in our youngest daughter’s room. Why is she crying? I run to the room. I begin to cry, my daughter is dead. She was twelve, too young to die. Her throat had been cut, a bloody mess. How did it happen? Why did it happen? Why me, and why her? Too many questions for my mind, I sat down. I was sad, I was angry. I couldn’t think anymore, but my beautiful wife could. We buried her, a few friends came. I wanted to do more, but I couldn’t. We had spent our money for the month. No more would come. I was tired, so we went to sleep early. Again, a bad dream. This time, it was night. The moon was red, the rest of the world was pitch black. I wake up to an exhausted sob, I wonder what is wrong this time. Our eldest is dead, sprawled out on the floor in her pajamas. Her body is covered in bruises and scrapes, like she was struggling. I can’t think about anything, I fall. I work my way back up, red-hot tears stinging my face. I punch the wall, why? What is happening? Again, we bury her too. Our currency is man-power, our gift is a rose. I wipe the sweat and tears from my face. Our baby son is crying for us. My wife and I go inside, she feeds him. I hope he will enjoy his present, if he gets it. This will be his first Christmas. No more will die, tomorrow will be a joyous day. Tonight, I’ll stay up, I don’t want to dream anymore. I am sitting in bed, my wife sound asleep beside me. My eyes begin to close, but I force them open. I get up and walk around. I get a cookie, and eat it while sitting under our tree. I pick up my son’s present, simply a cup. It’s a very nice cup, why should it be his? I look at the other presents, one for each of my children. They didn’t deserve it. What? Of course they did! I loved them! Yes I did, but they’re gone aren’t they? No, there is one left. He is sleeping, I should be sleeping. I can’t, I do. The dream comes again, I dream that I’m sitting under our tree. I get up, and walk. I go to my son’s room. He is wonderful. He is ugly. I hate him. I feel dizzy, I faint. I wake up. I look at my watch, 4:27 a.m. It is too early. Then, I realize I am on my son’s floor. I stand up and look at my son. He is gone, at least most of him is. All that is left is an arm. My nostrils are filled with a terrible stench. I run, I run as fast as I can. Out of our neighborhood, out of the town, I run till my legs won’t heed me. I fall in the road, it is a lonely road. I desperately search my pockets for my pills. My happy pills, I take one. I feel much better. I hadn’t taken one tonight, probably because I stayed up. My children are dead, why? I would kill their murderer! I would strangle him. I will swear it, I pull out my knife, intending to take an oath on it. It was gleaming. Why was it gleaming? It was covered with the smell of my children, and blood.