A Crow, A Raven, and a Magpie

𝓜𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻

Blood was pooled all over the floor. A dark shade of crimson red that someone could nearly see their own reflection in.

The room was near pitch black, yet moonlight tore past the shades of midnight through the half-curtained windows. It shined a brief, white light on the ghastly scene.

In what seemed to be a dining room, a woman laid dead on the floor. It was hard to directly identify her wounds, as her chest was deeply drenched in her own blood. Her brown hair strands stuck to the floor from the gore, her dark blue eyes were open wide yet dull and unblinking, and her mouth hung open as if she were screaming, yet no noise escaped her numb mouth.

Her veins appeared ink black, which was most notable in her bloodshot eyes. Her nails were long and appeared overgrown. It was hard to discern why she appeared this way. 

Only a few feet away, was a young girl and what could only be assumed as her father.

The young girl's hair matched the brown color of the woman, and they looked similar; near identical to one another. 

The girl had a splash of blood on her cheek and on her patterned tank top, but it hardly compared to her leg wound. She was sitting with one leg curled under her, while the other was stretched out in front. It was bent at an awkward angle, which indicated a fracture, and it was clear to see the white bone protruding from the raw pink flesh of her lower leg. Her kneecap looked out of place, and her injuries were more obvious with the fact that she was wearing a small pair of shorts. 

Tears streamed from the girl's blue eyes. She looked scared. No, she was horrified. She was traumatized. Pain was searing through her whole body; from her feet to her face, but she didn't tear her gaze from the horrific scene before her. 

She was half expecting the woman to lift her head, or to look at her young daughter. She was waiting for her calm, soothing voice to assure her everything was okay. But she was in denial. Her hope could not compare with reality. 

Her father sat on the floor beside her, his arms wrapped around her like a tight blanket. He was squeezing her small frame, and pressing her up against him in a way of comfort. 

His hair was black and despite the appearance of shiny hair gel, his hair was a mess. His bangs were curled on his forehead, nearly masking his wide eyes. He shared the same blue eyes with his daughter, and they shared the same terrified gaze.

A gun, as well as at least 3 bullet shells were sprawled out on the hardwood floor beside him.

Blood was smeared on his shirt, but it wasn't clear where it came from; if it was his, his daughter's, or his wife's. 

"It's... It's going to be... okay, Draven," he spoke in a slight trembling voice. His typical stern tone hardly shined through his anxiety. "I promise... I promise, it's going to be okay."

The girl felt his grasp tighten on her as her ear pressed against his chest. He attempted to avert her eyes from the scene, but her stare wouldn't drift away from the body. 

"One day you'll understand... I promise... You'll understand. I'll explain, I promise, Draven." He said. To the girl, it was barely comforting. She was waiting for a different voice; someone with more reassurance and an enchanting tone. Someone who would keep their promises, someone who she felt safe with, someone she could talk to. 

"I owe you an explanation, okay?" He placed a hand on the side of the girl's head. He swept his fingers through the greasy strands of her hair. He lowered his face and pressed his mouth to the top of her head. 

"I owe you an explanation."

Only 8 years of age, and she had lost her only means of safety and trust. 

She had lost her mother, and would forever live with the fact that she couldn't have her back.