Ku dum Ku dum Ku dum.
I stood frozen to the spot right across the street from where his small body lay. For a second I wondered about the split second stress response mechanism the body supposedly had. And it was then that I found myself kneeling beside his bloody body, picking it up and getting ready to run towards help. Then the voices began to register and it dawned on me that onlookers were trying to get me to pause and realize that he was already gone.
Elias Matthews was only four and a half-years-old when he had the promise of a bright future snuffed out way too soon and brutally too. So I knelt over his still warm body looking into his disturbed deep blue eyes trying to imagine the life he would have lived.
An artist. Little Matthews had held an affinity for coloring books and colored pencils. He would rush out the door without breakfast as long as he made it to Mrs. Hallows art class first.
But then again my little boy even at the tender age of four had possessed a way with words. Onlookers must have thought me stricken with madness as a smile struck across my face as I called into memory the one time he talked his way out of a time out after a shouting match with me and persuaded me to grant him an extra slice of dessert for him that very night.
My sweet little Matthews was the very breath I depended on to live. I know it sounds like another cliche declaration of love. However, I need you to understand that from the moment I felt his father’s seed find its way into my womb I knew he had been conceived and I loved him from that very moment.
I wish that I had been more watchful. I knew Matthews was inquisitive and loved to run ahead of me slipping his little pale hands out of mine. But I just had to be distracted by the day’s paper. And now after it was all done, I could not recall what had caught my attention in the first place.
Chuckling to myself I said, “Oh how he loves the color yellow.”
“Loved.” I’m not sure who said it but it broke me. It can’t be that I now have to use past tense to refer to my baby.
“Loves,” I screamed looking behind me.
“Loves!” Repeatedly and angered. Rocking back and forth, a river flowing my blood stained cheeks and now in a red-drenched sundress.
“He loves the color yellow.” I rocked my baby to sleep. Everything would be O.K just as long as he loves the color yellow.
I felt an arm on my shoulder and opened my eyes and looked up. “It’s time for your pills Mrs. Matthews,” says a sweet voice. “She’s in pretty good shape for a 97-year-old but sometimes she never really sleeps and appears to have nightmares.” I hear her whisper.
She must think I can’t hear her. But as long as he loves the color yellow, everything is O.K.
This short story is part of my writing prompts series.