A five year old girl stood before a grave. A wooden cross, fresh dirt, and a single daisy. A soldier, a mother, lies in the ground as her only daughter weeps before her grave. The sweet smell of peppermint is masked by dirt and death, the smell of her mother a distant memory. There is no peppermint anymore. A pistol wrapped in the hands of a twenty nine year old woman, whiskey on her breath and gunpowder in the air. ~ I can never express my hatred for the smell of gunpowder. The putrid aroma of sulphur, the hint of steam, the stench of fire and wounds and blood and death ~ Her hands drip red, blood slips off her fingers, from too many times holding the knife by the blade. She knows nothing but the burning liquor flowing into her veins and blood, nothing but the sun and moon, nothing but how to survive. She feels nothing but the curve of the trigger and recoil. ~ Nobody knows her name, but now, she just uses the one she saw on a grave ~

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