Her hands were folded together tightly by skin wrinkled over bone. Cloth wrapped around her like a veil that was homespun. Across her bedside was a younger version of the frail women. She wore a torn tank top and a messy bun to match.  She sits on a stool, twirling a a white chrysanthemum.

She died this morning. She Placed the flower in her empty palm, patting  and rubbing the still warm skin.
It was peaceful, just the way she wanted. She leaned forward and downward, to heave a polished 2x4 from the ground. Pushing her chair back, she rose to her feet. With one arm she hoisted a paper thin women and place the board beneath her head. Reaching for the second item. She removed a wiry stray hair from her vision. Taking measure and taking aim, she notices her mother's hand twitched.
With one motion she plunged the knife into her mother's windpipe. Leaving behind the blood that once flowed thick in veins connected to her crown. Her hands were shaking so badly, the blade slipped right out of them. The young women stumbled down after them, landing on the floor right next to freshly spilled mess.

She just stopped functioning after we lost Dad and Stanley. Thirty minutes passed by staring at falling scarlet droplets. The young women slowly stood and walked to the door. She looked to the bed before exiting.  She closed the door and rested her head against the cold wood.
I won’t let fear control me, not like what happened to her. Her sobs were stifled, attempting to hide her guilt.

We made plans. Walking down a damp wooden staircase, the smell of mold mixed with a slaughterhouse was sickening. It overtook the walls of the garage, spreading like a virus. It once held misty memories, now it's congealed with dust. The only light source was a engine with flickering buttons. Next to the engine was a small crate.
In the past, dad and I never got along that well. We didn’t dislike each other we just never connected. Inspecting the dustless box, twelve tin cans were found. Some of them had food labels that peeled and the other cans made a nauseating sloshing noise. The women lifted a can with no label to her ear. Bingo, she thought. Carving a makeshift opening, she poured the gas into the tank. The engine, in return, made a satisfying humming sound.
They were more like brothers or friends… They always had each other. She measured the amount of gas with her ears and when she was content and put the cap back on.
Now, there lying there. Together, in the dark. If the wood had not been so aged and bleached the blood trail could have been missed. The streak created a path to the corner of the room. There was a white bed sheet smeared in blood.

The bathroom walls were a busy mosaic of blue and white. Small but functional, only one member could fit in there.
It took this situation for me and dad to click. We had a lot of time then. The women balled up her stained shirt and threw it into the overflowing wicker basket.
We talked about fear and belief. Belief in survival. Belief in myself. She slid off her panties.
It gave me strength to persevere when Dad and Stan died.  She eased herself in the hot water. A treat in a time like this.
The strength to finish mom when it became too much for her. Around the tub was assortment of shampoo bottles, mostly empty.  She squeezed a greedy amount of shampoo and rubbed it into her scalp.

Her fixed gaze was towards a label ‘Gage and Desoto’. She splashed some of the liquid contents on the back of her neck. The familiar aroma of her mother's perfume provoked a feeling of longingness.
I don’t even remember what it was like before all of this. She placed a pearl earing on.
Doesn't take much to change your whole life. What you believe in. She put on a matching pearl necklace and put her hair up.
I’m a women now. Not a victim. She is now in front of the mirror looking at her dress. The bad taste of fear disintegrated against new razor-edged teeth.
There is only one more decision to make. The lights above her started to flicker.
And I’ve made it. Her heels pounded against the cold white floor.
Dad had plans. She tore the kitchen apart to find a box. Inside was a pistol with 2 clips of ammo. She shoved one in the gun with the bottom of her palm.
I will give meaning to death. She slammed the gun down and raced to a yellow can of propane. Desperately trying to untighten the propane. Across the other room was an two more exact replicas. She then sprinted untightening the other can. Grabbing the gun she went to a door with boards nailed in. She pulled out a lighter. Panicking to keep the fire lit. She ignited a candle stick. Running to the garage she picks up a tin can and poured the contents in.
Thank you daddy. Thank you for giving me that purpose. In the center of the room sits a chair facing the garage door. Pounding can be heard from the other side. The women hesitated for a moment to sit. She looked her gun and decided to sit down. The room was strangely cold, yet, sweat stung the woman's eyes. 
Good bye Dad, Mom, Stanley, I love you all. She opened the garage door with a button. Hands and moans reached from under the open door. They drag themselves forward on crumpled legs and crushed bodie. Like seas, they roll to the tide.
The young women silently put the gun to her head. The moans of the dead grew louder. She shut her eyes. A hissing noise came from one of the propane cans it blew up killing all the dead. The bright light sizzled all liquid inside the gluttons of man. Combusting the heart, liver, lungs, of everything in a two mile radius.