A Daughter's Pride

I started walking, following the faint aroma of fresh blood, exhaust fumes, and radiator fluid. There was a time when those punks wouldn't have made it to the fence, let alone gotten through the door and done what they had done. But the Alzheimer's had ravaged dad's mind and mom never was much for putting up a fight. I told them to sell the house, that the neighborhood wasn't safe anymore. I told them to at least get an alarm system. But you know how old people get. They won't admit things aren't like they use to be. That they aren't like they use to be.

The trail turned off the road and down a dirt path. Then I smelled a campfire about a mile away. I ran toward it, slowly picking up random noises. As the smell of burning wood grew stronger, the random noises became words: some panicked, others defiant, but all drunk.

I smelled more blood, but this time it didn't belong to my parents. It belonged to one of them. As I neared the campsite, the odor of fresh corpses struck me. I could see bodies near the edge. I walked up, ignoring the shocked voices. Dad had managed to summon up enough strength to transform a single claw. It had been enough to kill two of them before his throat was slashed. I felt the gun against my temple as I looked from my mother's body to my father's. I turned to face the fool with the gun.