The girl stood framed in early morning light. Something was different about the inside of the barn, but she wasn’t sure what. Maybe it was the texture of the silence. She took two steps forward. Her eyes squinted against the dark. The shadows were familiar. Rusted machinery parts, fence posts, bundles of wire and odd shapes covered with tarpaulin. Motes of dust danced in the sun’s rays. She took another step. Her father was slumped against the back wall. A pattern of blood and brains was a bouquet against seasoned wood. She took another step. The farm was her world. The girl knew death. But this was different. She crouched by her father’s splayed legs and tugged at his trousers. When nothing happened she stood and put one grimy thumb in her mouth. She remained for a couple of minutes, watching the flower spray that bloomed from the ruins of her father’s head. She heard the buzz of blowflies. Finally, she backed out of the barn and went in search of her mother. She didn’t run.
