Tim, age of 6, brown eyes and brown hair, was walking home. His mother welcomed him in, but told him to stay in the kitchen. Tim's eyes asked why, but his mouth knew to be seen and not heard. Then he heard yelling and overturning of objects in the next room. His mother jumped into the living room. There were more screams. And then there was a gargle noise. Then he heard someone yell "Mary!". There were sounds of weeping, and then the sound of a gunshot. Tim's eyes looked upon the door in horror, wanting to move away, yet his feet were stuck to the ground. The door opened. Tim saw the man, his gun, his bloody knife, and the two bloody bodies of his mother and father on the floor. Then he heard a gunshot, the last thing he would ever hear.
John was eighteen. He lived with his mother, Mary. He had worked overtime, but he was on his way home. He was looking forward to his mother's cooking. His car was driving down the road when he spied a total stranger runnuing out of the house. He carried a bag with him. John suddenly feared the worst. He checked the guy out. The man had a narrow face, blue eyes and black hair. He ran down the street. First John realized it would be best if he went inside to check on his family first. He ran inside. He first saw Tim. Tears came to his eyes as he checked Tim's pulse. Tim was dead. He ran into the living room and also saw the body of his father slumped over his mother. He ran outside to the car to get his phone. He dialed 911.
Some time later they held a funeral for his family. The preist had a narrow face, blue eyes and black hair. John somehow knew him. That was weird because he never went to church. As he read the last words, the people dispersed with words for the deceased. John was the last one there. He realized from the start that he had bad luck. He had such bad grades, it was amazing that he had a better job than working at a dump. John looked up from his family and looked at the bust of Jesus. He asked it,"Why me?". The preist's gun had the answer.
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