My mother was lying on the floor, in a pool of blood with her katana and wakizashi laying next to her. She had three bullet wounds in her chest and on... in the center of her head. Under the caption were the words, ‘Is this your famed Akita?’ I don’t know why, but I didn’t cry. I just knelt there, staring at the photograph. Anger filled me. Anger at the world. Anger toward the people who did this. Anger at my father for putting my mother in this situation. Anger at the thought of not being able. I heard a low moan and a little sort of yelp sound come from next to me. I opened my eyes to see my sister with her fingers buried deep inside herself and she was holding them tight there, the heel of her hand pressed firmly up against her mound. I noticed a substance which was white and a little bit thick seeping out around her fingers and when I noticed that, I looked down between my own legs and noticed the same fluid in much smaller quantities, around my finger. I looked back up at my. More

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