the killing of the Darcy family

January 16, 1950

Snowdrift carried silence that evening, there she was, 'neath the pine and
supine on the hill, Ivar Darcy.
The little girl to the pristine Maria Darcy and her spouse Oliver. Ivar was of little words and worries. Eight year old her loved lullabies, lakes, lilacs, and the larches in late autumn— the hue of a harvest gold. Her hair coal-black just like her eyes, but her soul so golden and grand. On the night of coldness, their house sat still on a hill, very freewill. The daughters, Ivy, Ivar, and Iris all played on the living room rug while their parents took sips of chamomile tea. The wax of a soy candle at its last minutes, the flame bargained with the wick before it vanished into white smoke.
"Let's get ready for bedtime, alright girls."
Spoke the mother through her kind teeth, the girls looked up and started packing away their dolls.
As the family started to get ready for rest, a rock was heaved from the outside of their kitchen window. A sound that poisoned the three girls still, an ugly din came like the beats of a drum. Soon, their father was on the ground with a wound followed by Ivy and Iris. Ivar's shaking hand was taken into her mothers, she lead her daughter to the bedroom closet. The same sound kept penetrating through the the walls, so thin they could feel the beat of the bullet.
"Ivar, listen to mommy. I need you to go through the back window and run all the way into town."
Said the mother through trembling lips,
"Don't let them see you. Hide!"
She finished as she released her grip on Ivar. She fled out the window to her mothers commands and ran through the darkened night. Leaving her footprints in the snow and cold as ever, Ivar never looked back on that cursed house. Dare her feet touch the front patio again, may she find flowers at their ugliest form. Dare she learn and love another soul, may she find scars at their prettiest healing.
Ivar, her tears were to shed forevermore.