Play Dead- passage VI

What would my Father of done? Killed her, thats what. Like he did my mother. Gave her a double dose of rock salt, straight in her chest, said it was self defense, said she was a whore. I hated him. Bastard.
I remember that day. I was twelve years old, it was summer. I was playing in the cornfields when I heard the scream. Heard the shots, and ran, through the corn towards the house. Towards the last memory of my Mother.
Her body lay on the floor, pheotal and bleeding, stillborn. An empty bottle of bourborn smashed on the floor , a thousand glistening shards stained crimson. One for each ruptured promise. Cracked and Beautiful.
My father, sweating and shaking, sat at the kitchen table, one hand perched on the broken shotgun. The other gripped his drink, her drink, my Mothers jasmine tea. He died six years later, in a car accident, he tried the brakes and they didnt work. I never went to his funeral.