A little piece of writing that will probably develop at some point within a story.
|My eyes had been closed.
I felt the sensation of damp weight in my hands, and the coolness of a white tiled room beyond my eyelids. I wanted to open my eyes, but was afraid, and did not know why. I could hear nothing, and the smell in my nostrils was unfamiliar. I felt that I was alone, and dared to open one eye a little, wincing when the slice of light bit through my lashes.
I was home.
I was in my kitchen, which was filled with daylight; bright and airy. Yet something was wrong. I opened my other eye, adjusted to the brightness and looked down to find out what I held.
I fell to my knees to vomit, dropping the mess I had been holding. The smell in the room deepened as a pool of blood spread across the floor from the tangle of broken limbs. It was a child, or at least it seemed that there was nothing else it could have been. As I raised my hands to wipe my mouth, I saw the blood that covered them. I felt a scream surge through my chest, up into my throat. On the verge of releasing the howling agony my terror had raised, I was interrupted by a soft knocking on the door.