The Dark Days

right|300px
== Chapter 1 ==
My hands grasp hold of Father's war torn hands. The dirt under his fingernails, the dried blood above his eyes, the sorrowful mouth. It can't be him. He can't be dying in my hands. The heave of his chest slows and I know it's useless. I let go of his death grip and take my Mother out of the room. I'll write later.