"Unable to bear the smell of her parents' decay, the little girl gets out of her bed, leaving the protective warmth of her soft blanket, and walks down the hall to her parents' room. Her bare feet are silent on the thick carpet.
She opens the door. The air rolls over her, smothering her with its stink. She walks in, lightly vomiting small chunks of matter and blood into her hand.
The bed is black with flies burrowing into her parents' flesh, planting the eggs that will become new flies. The wound she made in her father's neck is infested with them. Her mother's head rests on her father's shoulder, her mouth open, dense with flies.
The knife is on the floor by the bed. The carpet soaks up the blood. She picks the knife up, admires her face in a patch of shiny steel that peeks through the blood, then tosses it off into a corner."