Things had started out incredibly loudly in Lowe household that night.

Of course, it was much past midnight, and the noises had faded down to nothing. No more screams. No more begging. No more gasping for breath. Just silence.

Impenetrable silence. Impermeable silence.

Dead silence.

Blood spattered the walls, and the white linen sheets on the bed. The blanket was pulled down, and underneath it red spots were rapidly growing on the mattress and box spring, spreading, pooling underneath the two bodies that lay there.

On the floor, clumps of ripped and torn hair littered the carpet. Bits and pieces of scalp still clung to the strands, bloodied and painful reminders of how they had ended up in their current position. Little white and pointy objects dotted the carpet and the blankets of the bed – some of them even hung by their roots from the mother's mouth. The father didn't have any of them.

Teeth.

The two bodies had been cautiously mutilated, their faces disfigured and nearly impossible to discern. Neither the man nor woman had eyeballs any longer. They'd been viciously stabbed, over and over, leaving only scraped eye sockets in their place. The pillows were soaked in red.

Who would have thought that the human body could contain so much blood?

The woman's upper torso was ultimately destroyed. Had her wounds not been fatal, she would have been a bloody mess. Forty two stab wounds centred in her chest were oozing the last remnants of her blood down her skin. There was blood on the ceiling from where the attacker had lifted up his arm over and over to sink the knife into her flesh.

The father was lying with his legs spread partially open. There was a rather large red stain between them, and rather large pool of dark crimson blood.

And that was it. His genitals were missing. Nowhere to be found.

His lower torso was useless. A nice slice up the abdomen revealed that he was stomach-less – the organ lay idly on the floor beside the bed, useless and pink. Blood pooled around it. Blood pooled around everything. The room might as well have been a sea of blood.

On the floor. The walls. The ceiling. The bed. The bodies. Their faces.

Blood.

A little boy stood in the doorway, shaking.

He, too, was covered in blood. In his hand he clutched a knife.