Burning Throats

She raised the bottle to her lips- drinking away her sorrows. Her son stared at his mother, It was quite normal- his mother drinking in the midst of the night. Though his eight year-old brain couldn’t understand everything that was happening he got the gist of it. He knew his mother wasn’t like all other mothers. He knew drinking wasn’t something she should be doing. What he didn’t understand was- why? Why did she drink? What had happened to her? He didn’t know, but as his mother turned around bottle raised to her lips he knew it wasn’t the time to ask questions.

“What are you doing here, child?” Her voice stinked of the very substance she was drinking. 

He cowered away, hiding beneath the sink.

“I. Asked. What. Are. You. Doing. Here. Child? She emphasized each word, hoping she would get an answer. She didn’t. In words, at least. 

He was gone, reaching for the phone. A stinky little brat’s attempt to call 911.

She stalked over to her son, like predator, like prey. Her bloodshot eyes glaring at him. His mouth was moving, speaking into the phone, yet her broken mind couldn’t comprehend his words. 

She would not be going to jail again. She would not return to that hell-hole again. So she did what she had to do.

Picking up a glass shard from one of the many bottles, she started quite a dark dance with her son. Their feet picking up speed, hands waving wildly in the air in attempts to steady themselves.

And then his salvation, brought the glass shard closer than before. He couldn’t escape. The phone cord was tangled wildly between his limbs. He couldn’t escape. His mother brought the shard down. Straight into his heart. 

The phone spoke- “Kid, are you still there? Kid? Ok, Kid hang in there. We're coming to get you.

She stabbed herself.

The police found them both. In the living room. Blood pooled around their bodies. She was identified as a schizophrenic. A serial-killer on parole. Amanda Riggs.

He wasn’t her child.