Months of speculation
And days of uneasy sleep 
They lead to a tired, worn and hopeless man,
With nothing but a death sentence held in his hand.

Every day and every second his thoughts were haunted
Of the burden of his family and the face he had to dress-
Of the slighted looks his wife gave, of the eldest's
grunting breath,
Of the staring eyes at work, they were in the knowledge that
something wasn't right,
They speculated many things, but not that he'd-

He focused his mind on these mundane tasks, 
Tortured himself glass by glass,
Cried in the bathroom trying to be strong,
Grinding his teeth as he knew all along,
His parents uneasily drinking their coffee in the knowledge
that something wasn't right,
They speculated many things, but not that he'd-

Months passed in sadness, 
He struggled to breathe, 
he slid in the door, 
And fell to his knees,
He let out a scream,
And his daughter stared on,
His wife ran in,
Yelling "What the hells wrong!?"
He threw himself up,
And clipped her with his palm, 
The daughter staring running,
As he grabbed hold of the mum,
As the blows progressed,
This is what he'd been wanting,
He smashed her head,
Into a painting.

And as the blood trickled down, 
and she slid to the floor,
He turned his efforts to the daughter,
Who was to be no more.
A mere age of 8,
And ahead of her her whole life,
They speculated many things,
But not that he'd kill his own wife.