You don't want to go in there," is all the officer said, his face as pale as the dead. The ride-along saw white grow on his head. Hand on his clip, cold metal on his hip, thinking of wasting that monster, sat so close you could spit. This is no man. No man could do this. Heartless. Gentle grace, met with violence. In this dark place, I feel Your silence.
Stared at the window on the right. Winter air and the fear of what was inside sent shivers down his spine. That flashing red light. The young man found comfort in the stars taking his mind off homicide. Walked up the path through the yard. The door stood ajar; he stepped hesitantly into the dark. Just then another ran past him, eyes wide, hands clasped to his face. Shoved him into the wall as the first spray escaped. The remainder of the vomit planted in the garden. Pointed to the, "First door on the right." That same flashing red light.
He gathered his courage and tried not to think of what he was about to see. Tried to not visualize a child of three running into the first door on the right hoping to stop the fight.
Red on the walls, red on the presents. Her angelic head, left blood and fragments. Red on the tree, red on her fleece. He put her down as she tried to flee.

We are all given a chance to be free. "I will be better than my father before me!" That little girl was his redeeming grace, the thing to help him forget the misery. Cause he was never shown it, he spat in its face. Now this brave young one lays cold, planted under a tree, given no chance to grow old. (I feel it haunting me.)

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