Victim or Offender?

I knelt at the middle landing of our stairs, staring in horror. My mother was sitting on my dad's chest. There was a knife shoved into his heart by my mother, and she sat there, strangling the already dying body of my father. I was too terrified to scream of even move. I couldn't look away as I watched my father be killed. She raised his head and slammed it so hard against the floor that a loud crack sounded and blood splattered across the wood floor, and I couldn't help but gasp. Her head whipped around, and her cold, angry eyes bored into mine. She got u[ off my father and came up the stairs towards me. The anger in her eyes was replaced by bloodlust as she reached towards me and wrapped her bloody fingers around my throat. She lifted me off the floor and threw me down the stairs. I landed in a pool of my father's blood.

She was still coming towards me. She grabbed a knife off the coffee table and lunged at me. My blood-curdling scream filled the air.

I awoke in a pool of sweat, crying and shaking uncontrollably. My fingers found their way to my bandaged hip, where there would soon be a scar from the knife. The doctors had said that if it had been any closer to my stomach, I would have died. I was extremely lucky, and scarred more than physically.

The memory of my mom killing my dad was one I did not live with well. There was also the strange dream I'd had when I passed out from the pain...