It was half past five, the time at which laughter vibrated from parents that arrived home, the time at which the shrieks of amusement escaped the mouths of children regardless of their frozen noses, the time that reminded folks that there was a reason for living. But that day was different. That day was desolate, with the only noise audible being the deep breaths of air; cold, crisp, and cut like a knife at her throat. That day, the moon was directly overhead; full, large, and providing the dim light that illuminated the streets just enough to recognize figures.
Her eyes squinted as her fiery pupils peered through her eyelids, making sure she was headed the right way. The frigid weather forced the folks inside, but her passion was too hot to be extinguished. Her frozen hand grasped the silver knife in her black, bulky sleeve. With each step, it grew sharper against the wind. Her numb fingers felt the knife inching slowly out of her grasp, filled with the lust to tear through his skin. The walk grew weary as her big brown boots stomped into each step of thick snow, but the air numbed her pain leaving only the image of that day in her head. That day, the day that ruined her life, the day she realized she was alone. That day replayed in her head like a broken record.
That day was a beautiful spring evening. The birds were chirping a lovely song, the wind was blowing gently providing a subtle, warm breeze. The bus pulled to the corner and the kids happily skipped home, just as Isabella did. Upon arriving to her white brick house illuminated by the warmth of the beating sun above, she walked up the steps. Standing in front of her welcoming red door surrounded by hazy glass windows, she heard a faint scream. A fearful feminine shriek echoed through the door into the ear that was pressed against it. Suddenly, the view through the glass windows became clear as day as his hands were wrapped around her mother and the screams died. The only coherent thought left in her head was to run, run away, run far away from the abomination that was her father.
As the thought ended, the walk ended. She arrived at his house, this one was small, grey, covered in white snow that appeared untouched. No trail of steps, no trail of footprints, no trail of life apparent. It was finally the time, the time to bring justice to the man. The empty, frozen hand knocked on the black door “clunk, clunk, clunk” as if a brick was hitting it. After a minute passed that felt like a lifetime, the sound of  the lock unlocking, the knob turning, and the hinge creaking “Eeeerk” sounded amplified. The gaping hole between the doorway and the door slowly inched bigger. Time suddenly froze and the silver knife vibrated with the overdue desire to plummet through his wrinkly skin into the darkness that replaced his heart. There, standing in the doorway, the man who murdered her mother, the man who stole her childhood, the man that was her father.
There he stood, dressed in a gray robe and fuzzy slippers, rubbing his tired eyes with his red hands as he greeted the visitor. Then it happened, his eyes opened to hers; both pairs of eyes widened and flooded with tears. Ten years of running did not change the image of her father. Ten years of running did not change the image of his daughter. No words exchanged, except an exhale of relief by both of them and reluctant smile that creeped upon their faces. No words exchanged, but the extending of his arms around her back followed by hers around his. The warmth between the two was exchanged as they embraced each other. Just as he whispered “I love you, I’m sorry”, her right arm grew a mind of its own. The grip around the knife tightened and with one swift motion pillaged the left side of his back hitting his mawkish inside. Now red with joy, the knife pulled out. There she stood, staining the white and snowy porch with drips of blood and tears.