He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. To his horror, he saw…his mother laying in a pool of blood. “Mom,” he shouted while paralyzed with shock. He collapsed to his knees. Consumed with fear, he struggled to raise himself up from the floor. He crawled to a nearby chair, and pulled himself up. Trembling with fear, he stumbled into the kitchen and dialed 911. “I just came home from school. My mother is lying on the dining room floor covered in blood. 345 West Palmer Street.”
The receiver clung in his hand, he took some deep breaths as the operator advised. He couldn’t speak. He could only look upon his mother with a blank stare as blood continued to gush out of her chest.
Turning his head, he stared at the dish towels resting on top of the kitchen counter. He grabbed them, and stumbled toward his mother where he knelt down to apply pressure to her wounds.
“It’s too late,” his mother whispered, “The damage is done,” as she slowly closed her eyes.
“Stay with me,” the boy cried to her, as he shook her head back and forth, “Mom. Mom.”
She opened her eyes, coughing on her fluids. “I don’t have much time. Dren tried…Dren tried. He…”
“What did he try? What mom? Who did this?” He shouted as his emotional fire rained down upon him.
His mothers eyes turned up as she began to fade away.
He shook her once more, while applying pressure to the wound. “Talk to me. What did Dren try?”
“He searched. The knife. Don’t touch,” she gasped as she slowly faded away.
The boy stared over at the knife covered with blood. His gaze turned back to his mother. “Mom. Mom,” he shouted as he struggled to wake her.
The E. M. T’s came through the door with the police.
“My mom was stabbed. I found her like this upon entering my house. Save her,” he shouted as the police pulled him away from his mother’s body.
“Son, there’s not much we can do,” the officer said, as he pulled the boy away, while looking at the E. M. T’s who shook their heads, “She’s gone.”
“What am I going to do now? What am I going to do now?” The boy shrieked as she struggled to break free from the officer’s grasp.
The other police officer put on gloves, and examined the knife he removed from the floor. Looking at the boy, he asked, “Does this belong to you or your mother?”
The boy glanced over at the knife the color of army green. “I never had a knife like that. I know it’s not my mom’s.”
The officer glided the knife into the plastic bag as the medical examiner made her way over to the body, and collected fibers from the carpet, and tissue samples from the victim’s finger nails.
“She said something about Dren. Dren tried.. But she didn’t say much else. What did she mean,” the boy looked at the officer with pleading eyes.
“I’m not sure at this point, son,” as he examined the boy’s shoes, “Well need you to remove your shoes. Their bottoms have blood on the bottom.”
“I didn’t do it. I went to my mother to help her. Honest I didn’t,” the boy shrieked while trembling in the officer’s arms.
“Did you touch the knife, son?” The officer holding the bag with the knife asked.
“No,” the boy cried, “I was too afraid to do much else. I called 911, and the went over to my mother. I held her head, and talked with her. That’s all.”
“You did good. We’ll need to take you down to the station with us. It’s not safe for you to be here. This is a crime scene. And as for this Dren your mother mention, did she give a last name?” The officer holding the boy asked.
“No. She said ‘Dren tried,’ nothing else,” the boy sobbed while the officer carried him outside and put him into the squad car, “You’ll stay in here. Officer Morris will look after you for a while,” and he headed back into the house to help collect the evidence.
© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016