D E A R M E M O R Y 5

The little boy watches as his mother wallows, hugging the floor, cradling herself.

He eyes her scraped hands, her frail, slim body. He even takes note of the

bones poking from her arms, trying to remember the last time his mother had an

actual meal.

"He's not coming back." The boy said, sighing and staring at the window, broken from his mother throwing a picture frame at it. The glass litters the ground and

covers his sick mother's bed. She's still been laying on it—he knows--because

the bed is covered in small streaks of red.

"Neither of them is, mom." The little boy continues. He looks to the corner of the room, where a small, pink bunny huddle itself, staring back with beady, black eyes. "Well,

not unless I bring them back myself."

His mom perches up to that. She looks up, her once blue eyes dull, swollen, and

sadden. Her youth, now lost by hollowness, echoes in her sullen face. He

watches as his mother—like some animal—looks up to him, clutching her ripped

out hair in her hands.

He looks away, upset at the fact that his mother is looking up at him. It makes

him feel dirty.

"I'll make them pay for leaving us behind, mom." He smiles. She just looks at him, tears

falling from her big blue eyes. "You don't want me to?"

Too tired to talk, to breath, to respond—all she does is smile, so he smiles back.

"I'll make sure that his eyes will turn lifeless too," he said, "even if its

temporary."

He looks to his mom and offers his hand.

"Come, mom." He said as he swings her arm around his neck, "Get some rest."

She lays on her bed and smiles. She looks at her child and memorizes the way that

his smile is his mask, and that all that is in his eyes is hatred and the exact

hollowness she's felt for so long.

It only takes a moment for her to realize her mistakes, and now her son's promised

retribution.

She takes a slow breath.

She finally rests.