Max rushed to his daughter's side, but as he threw his arms around her, his smile soon morphed into a look of horror. The unmistakable feel of warm blood draped over his fingers like a silk burgundy sheet. Lizzie's eyelids fluttered feebly, as her body began to lose its fight to stay conscious.
Blood was pouring from a deep wound on Lizzie's left wrist, the culprit, a red stained knife lying on the cold, stone ground.
Max couldn't tell if they blade had severed an artery, or whether her wounds were life threatening, but he did know that they couldn't stay here. If they stayed, she would die either way.
Lizzie's eyes opened for the briefest of seconds, as she gazed up at Max, almost certain that it must be a dream; her last dream.
"I'm sorry, Max," she whispered, imagining him maybe f
