Zique folded his legs as he sat on the floor, his eyes darting around the empty room as though this was the very first time he was seeing it.

It was just as dull as he remembered it, the white walls with nothing to decorate it and a room as empty as his heart.

It was his parent’s, he thought he could forget them by throwing out their things, but the atrocity of that damn day still lived in his head.

Blood from the wounds his father was bearing was splattered all over the floor. There were several of them; deep stab wounds that had been so visible to Zique’s little eyes, and then on the other side of his room, was his mother, his father’s blood all over her pretty, white night gown and a kitchen knife by her feet.

It had all been a nightmare to Zique, one he thought he’d soon wake up from. But as he stood there as a thirteen year old kid and pinched himself numerous times, he realized that it was indeed reality.

It had been then that tears greased his eyes, his little body wouldn’t st