Once you get home you mope over to your room and plop down into bed. *sigh* Your stomach growls."Ma!?" You yell for her. "Hey Ma! Did you guys eat dinner?!" No response... God she probably is knocked out from drinking so much. You get out of bed and walk downstairs. They probably didn't even eat yet. Once you get downstairs you notice something seems off. Everything is neatly clean and tidy. It usually is a pig's stye I in the house. There was also this coppery smell... It wasn't alcohol and you could distinguish alcohol from other smells well. You follow the scent of the copper and stop right in front of your parents room. *knock knock* "Hello?" "..." No response. "Hello?!?!?!?!," you bang on the door. The door gives way a little and slightly opens. When you open the door there was a flood of the sickening smell of the copper. It was really over-powering. You closed your eyes and let the wave of smell pass and you get accustomed to it. As you opened your eyes you stand there in shock. There was something like red paint everywhere. It was splattered on the walls, ceiling and floor. Panick stricken you breath heavily to stop yourself from puking. The bed in the corner was soaked with blood. The sheets and pillows we're a deep crimson red. It was like a scene from a violent murder movie. Lying down face up on the bed were your parents holding hands. Of course dead because there were multiple stab holes in each of them. Shaking immensly you  walk over to the bed and look at the bodies. "No no no.... This can't be happening. I must have fell asleep in the forest and this is a bad dream." You drop down and hold your head. "This is all just a bad dream. I need to wake up. Please, please let me wake up." You pinch yourself thinking that the pain might be a solution for "waking up". The door creaks behind you and you hear it shut. You jolt and freeze as you hear a menacing voice behind you. "Are you ok? You seem to be talking to yourself an awful lot," a voice sounded behind you. Your head slowly turns to find yourself looking straight at a blade. Your eyes follow the hand and up the arm of the person who's holding the sharp weapon. A man? With a sickly smile and pale skin. Something was really wrong about him. It was almost as if his smile was carved into his face.