My book of horror stories

Mother deariest

I entered the house, so many memory's, good ones like the first time I did baking, or when I began to sing, or the bad ones, like my first break-up, or the first time I had a fight with my mother. This is all her fault though, all this is her fault. I entered the living room, where my parent' corpses lay, their body's wreaking of fear. Their throats freshly slit, their eyes gorged out. I took a glance around the room, the knife is on the floor. The Knife that killed my parents. I forgot to hide it.