text: Note: Includes violence. Jill deftly moved out of the way as the pot fell. She had not seen it, but moved by instinct. Her mother had beaten her far to often for her not to have those developed. As she bent over to pick it up, a knock sounded on the door. She looked up, through the dismal kitchen, to see who it was. "Jill, open the door for our guest." She heard her mother yell from the other room. She winced. Nonetheless, Jill brushed down her dress and came over to the door. Unlocking it, she glanced out through a small crack, and, seeing no one, opened it completely. A tall man stood there, draped in a dark cloak, towering over Jill's tiny form. He was pale, clean shaven, his eyes sparkling like gold in the sun. He smiled at Jill's tiny, frightened self. "Do not be afraid, child. I will not hurt you." With these words, he pushed past her, his stride having a determined purpose which she did not like. Jill followed him through the kitchen and into the dirty, grey living room, not daring to intervene. "This place..." He muttered, looking around. Jill understood his disgust. The room was cluttered, dust covering half of the objects in the room, indicating that they had not been used in years. Ten years, in fact. Ever since her father had died. His death had affected Jill's mother greatly. She rarely left her room anymore, except to punish Jill. She forced her to make her food, do the shopping. She was grieving, of course, but Jill did not deserve to bear her mother's burden in such a way. And for ten years. Maybe it was the stranger, or perhaps it was something else, but there awakened in Jill a feeling that her mother would have never tolerated from her. "I hate you, mother," Jill whispered, tears of grief, pain, and quiet, intense fury forming in her eyes. The man, who had briefly paused in the living room, now resumed his purposeful stride. He strode straight into her mother's room, slamming the door behind him, making Jill jump, and leaving her, dumbstruck, outside. She tried desperately to open the door, but apparently the stranger had locked it. Horror overcame her as a scream arose. She started banging on the door in panic, trying to force it open, to no avail. What seemed like an eternity in silence later, the door opened. The first thing Jill saw was a bloody knife in the stranger's hand. Breathing heavily, she slumped to the ground as she saw what lay beyond. Her mother lay on the bed, eyes glassy, a deep wound in her chest, sheets stained with blood. "I'm sorry," a whisper sounded. Then, Jill's eyes filled with rage, unthinking, unforgiving rage. Before the stranger had passed the house's threshold, he he found a kitchen knife lodged in his throat. He collapsed, gasps fading into silence. Jill stood there, tears mixing with blood, a single word ringing in her mind: Why? If anyone can give me feedback on this, I would appreciate it.