♡Doll Face♡

1

How it all began... a mistake? A purpose? What was the true reason behind this all, was it truly necessary?

Looking back on my life as the bed creaks under me; I feel him move, I can only say that it's made me the person I am now. Do I regret it? In some ways yes and in some ways no.

My name..., my name is Roxanne.

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5 years ago, at age 18 my life, the one I knew was changed.
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Walking home from my little job at a local flower shop, hands and arms holding a bouqet of sunflowers, (mother's favorites), I heard the sound of my barely heeled boots click the broken concrete sidewalk, each step made my body bounce.
Ignoring the eyes that stared from the alley ways, the balconies of apartments that were falling apart, those that were from porches, walking past me, I made it home.

Unlocking the door to the older house that raised me with it's secrets littered about it, I smelled my mother's cooking that was like a savory perfume that snaked it's way around the house. Taking my shoes off was a little hard with flowers in my hand but I managed since I refused to set them on ground before they reached her grasp, I didn't want the house to recieve the pretties before mother.

"Rox?" A sultry voice called from the kitchen that hidden around a corner of the doorway, to my left.

"Mother" I called back as my feet climbed the steps of the entrance, hooking a left through the doorway I walked into the kitchen.

There she was, stirring a pot of stew as her dress hung loosely on her curved body, hair tied up as the necklace my father gave her hung on her neck, like it belonged there, shining beautifully on her smooth charol skin. Turning around I was always awed by her beauty, the way her petite lips pulled apart into that gentle smile, the loose hair that hung around the edges of her face, thick eyebrows that only gave justice to her cat eyes, she was raw, and so beautiful.

"Flowers? Are they for me?"
"Always, they're sunflowers since we finally got them in stock"

Stepping towards her those slim wristed, slender hands took the bouqet as it crinckled with the movement. The flowers only made her even prettier as her black eyes took in the yellow and orange sunflowers.

She was a painting, a painting that I loved with every ounce of myself as a child loves their favorite thing. That thing was my mother that I can't help but talk for hours about.
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Sitting at the table I looked at the laced table cloth as the painted plates that had oceans on them with little sea flowers here and there were set around the table, my mother never wanted my help when setting the table, she had things a certain way. My father and I knew that all to well when she struck us with whatever she could find if we dared to set the table instead of her.

Looking at my father I smiled as he took my hand in his, those old fair skinned caloused hands fought through the difficulties of a life that I could only understand much to soon. The way his slender hands were scarred but gentle, his eyes tired but not sparkless, he greying hair brushed back into a stylish way since he worked at the shoe shop, he couldn't have it getting in his way.

Suit shirt slightly crumpled from work he just held my hand them reached for my mother's when she had finished setting the table, bowl ontop of the plate filled with that delicious mouth watering stew.

We prayed.

For the last time.
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My memories are slightly blurry from the events of that night as if it was a horrible nightmare that I couldn't wake from.
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Waking to the sound of clattering downstairs and pained yelling I quietly crept down the stairs. I had heard yelling before and thought it was another one of those times, I'd see my parents try to have a hushed heated argument with another man in house that I shouldn't have known about, maybe forgotten from childhood when I came down one time to the fighting then ushered back to bed with my mother brushing her hand over my head, saying a prayer that would (hopefully) make me sleep.

I never did sleep until it was quiet in the house.

It wasn't one of those nights though.

No the yelling wasn't because of an argument, it was my mother screaming as her husband my father was soaking the floor in his blood, the crimson color painting that old white tiled floor under him. Screaming as he groaned in pain, I froze, paralyzed, confused as emotions I couldn't comprehend flooded my mind.

I watched my father bleed out, I watched my mother be stabbed multiple times as she cried out for the paint to stop, her necklace that she gave me that night for some unknown now known reason was cletched in my hand. I wanted to help, scream out but I just stared, stared as my parents eyes fell towards mine, those unsaid words as they lay there. Mother ontop of my father that couldn't even gain the strength the hold her.

They said everything with those eyes before the man turned.

"Run, run for you life, we love you" then they died out like a star that no longer shined.

As the man turned I backed away carefully and as queitly as possible, making it up stairs I soon smelled something burning? Yes it was something burning.

My house, my family was burning.

I didn't escape fast enough.
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