Blood is red. Red as the petals of a red rose. Below are the dangerous thorns, waiting to harm you. Blood is warm to the touch, yet oh so very cold and bitter. Blood is a scary thing, yet beautiful at the same time, like our petite rose. Who am I? You might ask. I, am Mae, nothing more. Nothing less. My family used to be a happy, cheerful one. One that always visited a lake on fourth of July and gave presents and greetings during the holidays. That was before father got drunk day after day. At first, he would simply parade into the kitchen and announce that he wanted more alcohol. Then, he started yelling at mother. After that, he began killing cats and other small, helpless creatures. Then, one night he announced he got into a bar fight and killed two men. Mother, my little sister, Ella, and I could simply watch in horror as this man tore up our lives one minuscular shred at a time. We were too afraid to stop this. "Mae," My father confronted me one dark, bitter night, "I need you to kill someone for me." After that, I was never the same.