I hope you like it. I kinda got bored so, I wrote this. Thank you CryAway or lillianaathena for telling me it would be ok if i put this online. Pleez, nobody steal my idea. I've worked really hard on this. It would be heart breaking if somebody claimed the idea as their own.
When Grandma died, I was ten. She said she didnt want to keep living her life, so she got out Grandpa's hand gun, pointed it at her head, and pulled the trigger. I was there when it happened. There was blood everywhere; on the counters, in the cups, on the floor. Everywhere but where the music box was.
The box was on the floor by Grandma's head. The blood was spilling rapidly out of her, and the music box remained untouched. It simply steered out of it's way. Then out of nowhere, the music box started playing it's melody of death. It made me mad. Mad that i dodnt try to stop Grandma. Mad an myself. And mad at that box.
Four years later, I still have the music box, my only memory of Grandma. And only now do I realize why that dreaded box remained untouched. It was the box of Panthera.
Comment if you want more :)