The Blossom Tree(Short story)

Once my sister would sit with me under the blossom tree. Once I would watch her sketch out different flowers, trees and all sorts of nature designs. Not anymore. 3 months ago she was murdered by a serial killer. The identity of the murder unknown. The last thing I saw was her face. Dislocated, bleeding, skin falling apart and eyeballs poking out. 

The blossom tree sat outside of my house during all kinds of weather. Rain, snow, hail, sunny, wet, cold. I no longer sit there. 

My sister’s sketch pad is locked away in an old brown box on the kitchen counter. It remains untouched. She always said it was her little treasure box. I would always smile when she said this. Not anymore. 

I stopped watching the news 2 weeks ago. It always shows her face. Her bleeding, dying face. It shows the serial killer’s most recent victims and she is one of them. Haunting my mind with a face that would haunt anybody’s dreams. 

The serial killer kills once a month. His last victim was an eight year old boy. My sister was 10. 

Their faces appear in my dreams every night. Each morning the dark circles around my eyes become darker and my hunger grows. I ignore both. My lips become more cracked and dry with each morning that passes but I ignore the thirst. I just sit on the bench outside of my house staring at the blossom tree instead.