(Unfinished but I wrote this in like five minutes while smoking on my back porch watching the sunrise.) "Sunrise is the best time to write," Jordan whispered as he stuffed his lighter back into his pocket. He was shaking uncontrollably. The cigarette was clamped in that trembling grasp. Jordan was shaking because he had seen her. He had seen her do it. His brain was denying it even as his body nervously reacted. His mother was being taken away in an ambulance at the front of the house. Jordan was sitting on the back porch, damp from last night's downpour of spring rain. "Her face," he whispered, and began shaking even more. That was all he would allow himself to remember. That was all his suddenly shocked and fragile mind could begin to endure. He was in the process of blacking out the rest. The knife. "No," Jordan moaned, jerking his head from side to side as his emotional turmoil built. The dam was overflowing and alarms were blaring. The flood of emotions were threatening to burst the dam of Jordan's sanity. The red bathwater. Jordan took a big, hitching drag off the cigarette and blew out the cloud the smoke. As he watched it dissipate, he coughed. The little drip-drip of that leaky faucet. Jordan dimly recalled an argument between them about that damned faucet. Jordan heard the ambulance start up and cruise away down the road. They were in no rush. No siren was blaring. Their cargo was quite dead. Jordan collapsed into defeated sobs at the thought.