Karkat sat in a familiar room, his eyes wide. He could smell the sickening, metallic smell of blood. His mother's cooking was bad the first time down, and it wasn't any better the second time up. He could feel hot tears streaming down his face as he struggled with the ropes that bound his wrists together, the skin burning and red from his struggling. He yanked desperately, his eyes unable to tear from the sight in front of him. Then again, who wouldn't?

A sickening scent filled the air before he tried to scream again, the cloth in his mouth making it impossible to do so without choking himself. He gave a loud whine, blinking away his tears.

Has anyone ever said death was beautiful?

They lied.

Before Karkat sat his family, all in similar situations, bound and tied. Except only three of the five other's were still capable of struggling. His mother sat motionless, her olive colored eyes staring straight ahead. They were once so pretty, filling him with that familiar sense of maternal Love she had always offered to him, along with the rest of his family. Now they were cold, empty. Staring right to no where. He felt sick to his stomach, bile threatening at his esaphagus. Her black hair was plastered to the side of her face, bright red blood staining her once flawless skin. He could see part of the disgusting grey that was her main center of control- her brain in lamemen's terms. It seemed to gleam in the light from the candles surrounding them.

Next to her was his little sister- Poor Nepeta. Her similarly colored eyes stared straight at him, filling him with guilt. She was begging, trying to get her big brother to save her. He hadn't been able to fulfill her last wish, instead he was forced to sit still, and watch as their captor executed her. He watched as the knife plunged into her chest, listened to the crunch of bones as their captor dragged the knife across her chest plate.

What a shame, she had such a pretty necklace on too.

Karkat's attention was yanked to his older sister, Meulin. She had the hair of a lion, so soft and fluffy. He remembered sitting with her for hours, watching as she practiced sign language, often ending up playing with it to help pass the time. It was wonderful. Her olive eyes were wide, trying to follow what the sickening man was doing behind her.

She never saw what he did. She never saw as he held the rope over her head, or how the man seemed to almost mock her trembling. But he knew she saw it drop down over her line of sight. He knew she felt the rope tighten around her neck when the male yanked the rope back, cutting off the air supply. He knew she saw him close his eyes and fight desperately to get free.

Karkat didn't know if she saw the fresh set of tears stream down his face, or if she was dead by then.

Karkat opened his eyes when he was sure he didn't have to see her struggling anymore, to avoid seeing her eyes as she fought for air. His eyes rolled to look at the man, trembling. He felt the bloody hand over his shoulder, filling him with terror. It made him sick to his stomach, to just think what he could do to him.

Instead he was forced to watch as he walked to his father. The large man fought, the striking grey eyes wide and filled with tears. It was definitely new, seeing his father cry. He was normally a man, who was determined that fear could be overcome, to be strong. However, it was gone. All he could see was fear in the poor man's eyes. He sucked in a shaky breath, his eyes closing again.

CRACK.

Karkat had heard the gun long before he even though to open his eyes. And when he did, he instantly regretted it. He could see the red and grey caking the floor, the shatters of skull that had once held his father's cranium together. He could see the large gap in his father's head.

Tears streamed again, would he ever stop crying? He doubted it. He was going to die of tears long before the man got to him.

Tensing up, Karkat watched the man make his way to his older brother- his last living family member. Bile traveled up his throat as he sucked in air, trying desperately not to swallow the cloth in his mouth. Sure, Kankri wasn't the best brother in the world, but he didn't deserve this, no.

Kankri didn't deserve to have a screwdriver hammered into his skull with a mallet. Karkat screamed in his chest, his eyes closing as he listened to the sickening crunches of the hammer. He was sure he'd suffer a similar fate, maybe something quick, like his father. One shot and he was gone. Or perhaps slow, like Kankri. Oh god, the man was probably going to pour bleach down his nose.

Or at least he thought so.

A loud bang echoed across the house, flashing lights filling his vision.

Now was when the police decided to show up?! After everyone else was dead?!

That was three years ago.

Karkat slowly opened his eyes, his head tilting back to see his history teacher standing over his desk. "Well, Mr. Vantas, since you seem to find it suiting to sleep through this class, I will assume you know what I'm teaching. Can you tell me what year Martin Luther perfected the printing press?"