It was the night before Christmas,
And all through the house,
Not a sound could be heard.
Red stockings were hung on the chimney with care,
With hope that they'll be stuffed with toys by saint nick who'd come there.

The children slept soundly with no reason to wake,
Snuggling under their blankets with each a dream to partake.
The wife fast asleep,
Burrowed under the quilt,
Her husband lay awake,
His mind focused on guilt.

His eyes opened wide,
There was fear in his sight,

He jumped from the bed,
His knife bright from the moon's light.
He gripped the knife tightly,
His knuckles white with strain,
Slashed open his wifes throat,
She never felt the pain.

Crimson blood stains painted the floor,
Dripping from the knife where he stood.

He was lost to his mind,
But his mind was no good.

He whispered out of the room,
A dangerous glint in his eyes.

His bare feet hit the floor tile,
He never witnessed the cold,
On the knife he tightened his hold.

He entered the next room,
Which held his children,
Tommy two, Susie four,
No one wants to know what he did after he shut the room door.

The house seemed quiet....
Completely.

As the man walked out of the creaking door,
There was so much blood on his knife,
But so much more on the floor.

I hoped you liked my Christmas Story biggrin