he killed, he killed them, with tears pointed to one corner, where my mother used to sit to smoke a cigar while reading a novel by Gustav Flauber.
All that remains of my mother are his memories, the hatred that came from my father, while watching his accomplishments alone, but never watch reality, I never wanted to look into their eyes, I knew I could die, My life will never returned to be the same after that night.
-jack
