Her father was moving slowly down the steps, his arms splayed out like a toddler learning to walk. The g*n in his hand waved violently this way and that. He opened his mouth but all that came out was his blood covered tongue. The wooden handle of the kitchen knife, hidden for over a decade under her pillow, protruded from his gut. Blood soaked his shirt. His old muddy boot missed the second step and she thought of how he always used to say, “Nothing’s worse than getting caught between the devil and the s**t ditch.” He landed face down in the yard. She might have heard him say, “Sugar Beet.” She would never know for sure.
Then he screamed. It was a terrifying sound, the worst sound she’d ever heard. Then he lay perfectly still. Gloria scooted on her bottom until she could lean against her
