Montague Family House

And so he lay, writhing on the floor.

The daughter could barely comprehend what had transpired. She knew she walked in with the boy a few moments before – that the two of them were laughing all the way up the stairs to the family house. She knew that, once she had open the door, her father had been waiting. She knew that her father said something, but wasn't exactly sure what it was. And now the father held the pistol in his right hand; and there lay her partner, writhing on the floor.

She screamed. It was her first instinct. Her second was to run to the phone to call the police. Her father held her back, trying to get her to stay calm. She slapped him, and while he was dazed ran for the phone anyway. She had barely gotten on the line with the responder when her father pulled the cord on the phone and ended the call. All this time, the daughter's boyfriend lay lying, writhing on the floor.

Now a vengeful fury built up in her. She pushed the father away, calling him terrible things at the top of her lungs. Perhaps he deserved it, perhaps not. After all, none of us know exactly why he shot the boy. Not even the daughter knows why. All we know is that he stays laying, writing on the bloody floor.

It was at this point that the daughter had given up all hope. She, much like the boy, collapsed to the ground, crying in a neat corner of the room. Her father did not bother counseling her. Instead, he looked toward the cause of this commotion; the boy, who no longer was writing, but lay motionless. Motionless on the bloody floor.