Below is a micro-story I wrote back in September of 2004 on my LiveJournal (Original Link). It was referenced today, so I figured I would repost it somewhere easier to find.
For those wondering, the [lack of] backstory post is here. Basically, there is no backstory, not officially. It was kept open to reader interpretation. The story came from what flashed through my head when I heard
Bodies by Drowning Pool and tried to figure out what would take me to that level.
He walked into the house at a near run. On his way to the stairs he shouted to the man on the couch that the girls would be home soon and he needed to fix them something to eat. All he got in reply was a grunt from being forced to wake too early.
Once upstairs, he grabbed the small duffel he had sometimes used for short weekend trips. He put in a white sheet from the linen closet, then made his way to the closet. Pulling various things from the shelf behind the clothes, he strapped them onto his arms, legs or belt.
Before he left the room, he grabbed the necklace that bore the ring she had worn so many years before. Putting it on, he did run now, catching a confused look from the man, and answering it with a look to which the man could only nod.
By the time he made it back, he did not hear, and could only barely see. He dropped the bag, kissed her, and he squeezed her hand. As he stood, his eyes faded from the deep forest green they had been to a dull grey. He saw little except for the flash of a red bandanna on the kid running behind the building. They were the reason he was here, and they knew it.
He started with a slow walk. The first one still had the look of shock on the face that was, along with the rest of his head, severed from his body. He did not think, he only acted. One of them thought to aim a gun at him, only vaguely did he wonder if that one had felt the small throwing knife sink into the soft place in his throat. They were shouting at him, but he did not hear. Those that came to him were dead before they realized they didn't have the upper hand. Those that ran were followed, or fell from a knife in the knee or tendon.
One by one, those with the red bandannas fell. Knives, and other blades were discarded when they were no longer necessary. The last one tripped over her, the end result of their deed, and fell to the ground, tears streaming from his eyes as he prayed to his God and begged for mercy. What he got was the hilt of a seventeen-inch dirk sticking out from between his eyes where the blade had been driven home. Twenty-three had worn the bandanna. Twenty-three had done the deed. Twenty-three corpses were now in the backstreets and alleys they had once claimed.
With the white cotton sheet he pulled from the duffel he wrapped her lifeless form and lifted her from the ground. After carrying her back to the garden they had grown, he placed her on the bench they had placed there.
Pulling his last clean knife, a sgian dubh with their clan crest on the butt, he cut her a longstem red rose and placed it atop the sheet, already soaked with a red deeper than the petals of the rose.
He stepped inside the house and found his girls at the table with Tim cooking grilled cheese sandwiches not far away. Kneeling down, he hugged the two close, "Mommy won't be coming home, and Daddy's going to have to go away for a while." He ran his hands through their hair and kissed their foreheads. "Uncle T will take care of you until I get back."
He took the sgian dubh and placed it, along with the ring, on the table before the eldest of the girls, his First-Born. "Never forget who you are."
He collected his things and walked towards the front door. "Take care of my girls, T, they are all I have left of her." With that, he opened the door and walked out, bag in hand, shutting it before the children could notice the red and blue flashing lights.