-WARNING- There is very gruesome details in this story and some cursing. If you don't like it, don't read it. Just a heads up. Hopefully, less dark, and longer short stories coming soon. Its a nice break from my poetry.

Only one.

There was one picture on the wall. The frame was worn- the color had faded, the wood had been chipped away, there were dark stains upon it and the once great details were hardly noticeable now- and the picture was nothing but a remnant of the past. The picture, alone on the also faded wall was of a house. The house was large, clean looking and white. The shudders were hung properly, the windows were open, and as shown by the surrounding trees, there was a light breeze rolling past. There was a family on the front porch. They all wore nice, white and beige clothing, and bright, happy smiles. A mother, A father, a son, and a baby daughter. They stood on the nice, white stairs, of their large, clean looking house, with smiles. Happy.
What happened to the house, you ask? I could tell you, but I’m afraid I don’t exactly know myself. I imagine, if you take a closer look around the room, in which this very picture is, you’ll find your answer though. For, the very faded, stained, broken-framed picture before you, is hang on one of the walls inside the use-to-be clean, white, large house, all by itself.
When looking around the room, its history is told. The whole house itself has some sort of a dark air about it, as if the sun stopped shining so brightly upon the families home. The windows are broken, the floors are stained, and the paint on the walls is faded and chipped.
The chairs around what use to be the dining table are flipped, missing legs, and one of them is missing all together. The once white, clean, plush carpets now have lumps of things, bits of things, and stains everywhere. It’s as if a pack of rabid, mud covered dogs ran in and through the house for hours on end. There is a rocking chair in the corner of the dining room, with a light, pink blanket laying across it. Of course, it’s in horrible condition too, ripped and tattered at the ends and worn in many places.
The next room is a den, complete with a fire place, a small library, a couch, a television and two computers. Well, don’t think this room received any special treatment from the path of hell that was brought upon this home. The bricks of the fire place are crumbling, pictures and other random documents are thrown into the pit itself, some burned, some torn. The pages of the books of the small library are everywhere in the room, torn and crumpled and ripped. Even some of the covers are torn of the books. The couch is flipped over, the television is broken, and pieces of the computers lay everywhere. There are words scrawled all over the walls of the room- words like ‘Hate’ and ‘death’ and things I wouldn’t even utter, in fear of my grandmother hearing such foul language. Onto the next room shall we?
We have the kitchen next. The doors of the fridge are literally torn off, and have been thrown through the glass door, leading to the backyard. The sink is filled with a disgusting, bloody-rust colored substance, that smells awful. The stove has been drug from is original place, flipped over, and has what seems to be stab wounds in it. The cabinet’s are scratched, torn, broken, smashed, and many other horrible, descriptive words. The floor is slick with red and black and yellow liquid. The odor is… lets move on.
Upstairs we go. It’s really an attic, now. Once it must have been many rooms, but the walls have all been broken through. At the center of the room there is a table, with burning candles. Movement. What’s this? They are having dinner. A father sits in the middle, his back to us, hunched over in his chair. At either end of the table is a child, both, also hunched. Standing, awkwardly, is a woman, the mother, I suppose. She serves herself another class of wine. Nothing is said. Her hands begin to tremble.
“I’ll have some more wine, darling,” says a voice. A shaky laugh comes from the woman. She cocks her head to one side, twitching slightly. She moves closer to the table, and she comes into the dim light of the burning candles. Her hair is long, thin, and pale. She appears to be missing patches of it. Her entire body is thin and her clothing is hanging from her frame. Her clothes appear to have stains on them- possibly from the same substance in the sink downstairs. Her long, dropping hair covers her face.
Shakily, she lifts the bottle of whine. “You… want this?” She asks the man. Her free hand moves, and we hear a gear turn and something squeak. Something from the ceiling moves. The man nods his head. In a swift movement, the woman whips the bottle at the wall behind the small, hunched over girl and lets out a shriek.
“THEN GET IT YOUR FUCKING SELF!” she yells, yanking a knife up from the table. She thrusts it at the man in a threatening gesture. “You expect me to do everything for you, don’t you? I have to watch these two little bastards and you get to go out and fuck yours whore?! AND THEN YOU EXPECT ME TO SERVE YOU WINE?!” She takes a quick stab at his hand, chopping a finger off. A soft sob comes from the room, the woman’s chest huffing. Her hand twitches again, followed by the subtle movement and the same squeak. The daughters body shudders slightly.
“Don’t cry… Please,” the mother begs “Your father is sorry, he really is. I know baby, I know… He’s horrible to us.” The mother goes over to the daughter and holds her closely. “What’s that?” She studies the daughters face, and then slowly looks up at her husband. “Darling… I could never. Why would you wish such things?” A long silence. “What was that?!” She holds the girl tightly by the shoulders and shakes her a few times. “WHY DO YOU LIE?! I WOULD NEVER HURT YOU! WHY WOULD YOU LIE TO ME YOU LITTLE BITCH?!” She throws the daughters limp body against the back of the chair roughly, standing quickly to retrieve the knife from the table. There is the sobbing noise and the woman’s chest huffs again slightly.
“Why are you crying, you pathetic little bitch?” the woman growls, stalking back to the daughter. She holds the girls chin tightly between her fingers, placing the tip of the knife to her cheek. “Since you were born, all you’ve done is cried. Cried your fucking eyes out. For what? FOR WHAT?!” A flesh cutting sound. The mother sliced from the corner of the girls mouth to the girls ear lobe. “TELL ME! WHY DO YOU HAVE TO CRY?! TELL MOMMY! TELL ME!” she scream, cutting the other side in the same fashion. She pulls back, her shoulders slack and her posture relaxed. “Now… there’s a pretty girl. You keep that smile, now, darling.”
The wife went back to her place, took a seat, and continued to eat. No more was said, from anyone. The candle light, flickering in an odd way, now shone brightly on the sons face. Bits of his revealed chest and face were missing, his eyes gouged out. Oddly enough, the pieces of flesh missing, resembled the shape and size of the food on the mothers plate.
There was one picture on the wall. The frame was worn. The picture, alone on the also faded wall was of a house. The house was large, clean looking and white. There was a family on the front porch. A mother, A father, a son, and a baby daughter. They stood on the nice, white stairs, of their large, clean looking house, with smiles. Happy, appose to how they all stood now- dead.