Great Aunt Emery sits in that chair, the empty one. The story had been told. Passed down for generations. And now its my turn to know. I turn to face Grama Lousie,
“ Em, listen up, It is tradition for her seat to be their your Great Aunt Emery, born in 1940”
“ really, thats old”
“ shhh. Now, Emery made a habbit for being late. It was her thing. But that was what killed her.” She was only 12, her rabbit was missing and she refused to come and sit for the family photo. The photographer was getting antsy, he was threatening to leave, but he was the only one who would take our photo”
“ what happened next” I ask
“ Well our ancestors were hated among the village square, we were the outcasts, our clothes were rags and we had to beg for food. Many people would kill us at the chance.”
My Grama pauses and then really enters the moment, “ She ran down the corridor calling out the rabbits name. She looked up to a creaking sound above her, a knife was hanging down. She screamed and her mother came running. The girl pushed her mother back, taking the full blow of the knife into her head. The family came running to see the girl on the floor with warm blood running down her side.”
“ Gory” I state. I sit up straight and pose for the camera. That same strangled scream that Grama did comes from the hall.
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