I screamed.

That was all I did when I saw Mommy with the knife in her hand.

The bloody, stained knife in her hand.

She wasn’t expecting anyone to see her with that knife in her hand. She spun around quickly when she heard me screaming, and experienced the shock of seeing her small daughter running away.

Running away from her own mother.

My bare feet went PLAT PLAT PLAT against the floor as I ran out the door of my house, and on to the concrete pathway, then along the driveway, screaming, screaming, screaming.

Mommy killed Daddy. Mommy killed Daddy. Mommy killed Daddy.

I could still see her, yelling at him, twirling around like a funny ballerina, grabbing the knife, lunging forward.

I could still hear Daddy grunt with pain, with shock, with anger, as he saw his wife stare in shock at the sticky knife in her hand.

My tears fell, more quickly, more constant, than my pattering feet as I ran.

As I ran away from my own mother.