The fog was left behind from winter even though it should've been spring right now. It's been raining, and yet the first day of spring was yesterday.
The rain was still pouring from two days ago, and everyone's face was always the same gloom. The downside to cloudiness is that it's harder to wake up to.
I looked sleepy at my alarm, and it said 7:35 am.
"Oh shit," I muttered and jumped out of bed. I threw on a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt for some punk band that I liked when I was in college.
My son, Mateo, was eating eggs and sausage in the kitchen.
"Morning, mom," he said with a smile and pointed at a traveler's mug of hot coffee, just the way I like it.
"Thanks, honey," I say, and tousled his hair.
"Why the hair? Never the hair," said Mateo, a little annoyed. His caramel eyes with sunlight, his thick black hair now adjusted to his liking.
With haste, I eat a hard-boiled egg, and we are out the door. Mateo made his lunch and packed it. We race through the car, and it starts to rain again.
"Jacket?" I ask, trying to stay focused.
"Ready for Sociology test?"
"Notecards are here,"
"Give it here," I held out my hand and quickly read it while a stoplight was shining.
"Alright, why is social mobility an important ingredient to capitalism?" I asked and then proceeded to continue to drive.
Mateo scratches his head and then opened his mouth: "It's the transition from one trend or class from another,"
"That's...QUIT HOGGING THE LANE! WOW, you must have some entitled cunts in your family!! Bitch," I yelled at a woman that was texting. I hope she gets arrested for that, I thought.
"MOM!" said Mateo, speechless at what I said.
"Oh," I said, realizing what I just said "don't ever use that word, Mateo,"
"No, probs," said Mateo, nodding. Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at his school with ten minutes to spare.
I waved goodbye to Mateo, and he followed suit. I drove off to the grocery store, and then did whatever I wanted on my day off. The store was barren, and I enjoyed it.
Ever since they added in the children's carts, people would have to try not to get their feet run over. The store trip flew by, and I was done with putting the groceries at 9:45.
Maybe I'll get Mateo early and buy him a milkshake. I don't know what to do. I watched some shows to pass the time. I worked as a journalist and haven't had a day off for a while.
So, I just wanted to enjoy relaxing for a bit. Around noon, I had to eat some lunch, and so I went to eat out.
I sat in a diner with a cup of coffee that once was hot but now is room temperature -- no cream or sugar. I took a long sip, and a woman poured more once the cup was on the table.
I just had lunch and now debating what to do. I was reading a book about Edie Windsor, then I looked out the window and saw a cop car.
A man came out of the vehicle as raindrops hit his coat and hat. He takes his hat off and sits down across me. Brown hair combed to the side, and he looked tired.
"Water, please," he asked the woman at the cash register.
"Anything new?" she asked.
"Murder at Bednarse High School. Honestly, I didn't see it coming," he said and looked down. I sat up, and I feel my heart racing.
"Who was the teen?" I said, rather quietly. No one is looking at me.
"Officer," I raised my voice a little louder, "who was the teen?"
"Madam," he started, trying to find the words "A body was found at the high school. Do you know this kid?"
He shows me a picture of a boy. He has slightly crooked teeth, black hair, and caramel eyes.
He is my son, and then the emotions suddenly pour in like a dam bursting from too much water building up. My legs turn to jello, and I fall to the floor.
The cold feeling of tiles sends a shiver down my spine. The cop tried comforting me, but it didn't help at all. Who would do this to my son, he was only sixteen!
I'm standing in a well of darkness but then in a janitor's room. A teenager is crying while their head is buried in their arms. I can't help but shake this feeling that I know this kid.
He looked up at me, still crying with his eyes closed. It's my son, Mateo. I cradled him and tried to comfort him. Thank you, brain, for this.
"I'm sorry, Mateo," I say between sobs, "I will find who killed you."
"You..." he started, but his eyes were fully open. The tears had turned to blood, and the eyes removed. I staggered back at the sight of his face, horrifying image to witness.
He then grabs my neck.
"You ...should've ...died!" said Mateo, his voice growing more demonic with every word he says. "I am dead because you didn't bring me my lunch. I could've lived if you came back that day.
"I'm sorry, Mateo I knew you had your wallet," I said, the pain was getting worse. He then throws me into the door, and out I go into a hallway.
I skidded on the floor and hit my back with lockers; my head follows suit. I started feeling dizzy while Mateo pounced on me. He started clawing at me while screaming, "I could've lived!"
While yelling this, his wounds were opening with blood pouring out on my body, clothes, and face. Suddenly, his head jerks back with his mouth open. He starts having a seizure and screaming.
His mouth opens up to where black tentacles come out. I get up and start running, but an arm grabs my ankle. I get pulled down to the ground and pulled. My nails don't save me on the floor.
Sweat was coming from my head as I watched in horror. The tentacles were wrapped around my neck and going into my mouth. Mateo stood up and looked up at me with his eye sockets.
I tried pulling the arms out, but it was futile. They seem to be sucking something out of me, like a vacuum tube. I heard creepy, crackling, hysterical laughter from my side.
A man in dark clothes said,
"And the dance begins." He then snapped his fingers.
I woke up in the hospital bed; I survived somehow. It's been two years since my son's death; he would be graduating now. I looked out the window and saw a highway.
Cars are passing by as they go to their lives. Possibly useful, harmful, or down-right shitty. I sit up as the doctor comes by with a clipboard.
"Good to see you, Janis," said Dr. Marvin Adams, he has strawberry blond hair combed back with gray hairs starting to form and a typical doctor's outfit.
"Shut up, Marvin." I get up from the bed, and my head is pounding. I stagger and then sit back down. My feet looked pale, matching my face. I then did the usual checkup.
I was out of the hospital in two hours with the jeans and long-sleeved shirt I had on. I caught a bus back home to a one-story house in Louisiana.
Baton Rouge has been my home for twenty years, raised my son there for sixteen years of his life. I left Baton Rouge and moved to the nature area. I currently live in Windsor Village.
Windsor village has pretty much everything we need, such as Piggly Wiggly, ice cream store, cinema, and theater for plays.
We have everything we need in this place, and the area was established in 1667.
The bus stops, and I get off in front of my favorite bar. It was called Fire, a bar with the best Rummy Ricky I've ever had in my life.
A Rummy Ricky is where it has lime, Cointreau, rum, and simple syrup with ice. I walk into Fire, and it smells of beer and urine with a hint of drunken misery.
I sat at the bar, ordered a Diet Coke. I have to take med to keep me sane and my schizophrenia.
Santiago, the bar's owner, came over to me while wiping the bar down. Santiago has a black beard, round glasses, Hispanic, black apron with matching button-down shirt and torn jeans.
He keeps this place clean as hell with good drinks and service. He gets easily frustrated if a glass stain isn't taken care of or a particular area ] adequately cleaned.
Santiago is also one of my few friends in Windsor Village. He looks at me with his brown eyes and says, "So, still haven't found them yet?"
"Yeah," I said, "Another dead end." Trying to find out who killed my beloved son, so far nothing.
He was last seen at school when he asked to leave the bathroom. When they found him, he had bruises, and his neck had a dried-up cut. They found him in the dumpster behind the school.
Frequently, I cried at the thought of my son, but now I get upset and blame the murderer. I've accepted that he is gone, but the adjustment to the news is the worst part.
Mostly since you were close to that person, and they were your world. Since then, I drink my pain away with whiskey or scotch. I sat there and thought about my dead-end; I need to go home.
I left the bar and paid for my drink.
"Good luck Janis!" said Santiago with confidence in me.
"Thanks," I said as the door closed. I walked to the bus stop and got on to my apartment.
My apartment was littered with newspapers of the murder, along with updates on the investigation and how it ended.
On the wall is a board where I hung a paper that said there was a person with a mask on seen by a man walking his dog.
I didn't get a sketch of the costume, but the witness told me through an interview: "When I was walking Darrell, I saw him in a black cloak with black tennis shoes that looked like converses.
Our eyes met, and I grew uncomfortable all of a sudden. He waved at me slowly, and I saw his eyes were completely black, and he waved at me slowly.
He just kept staring at me with his smiling mask. However, then I felt pure fear, and that's when he ran away. His mask had black and red marks with the face being white."
I sat there in his living room, writing down what he said. The dead-end I hit was trying to get a Halloween store to see if any masks had sold with the description, they said no.
I looked at Amazon, and they didn't have what I was looking for, damn it. I stood in front of the board and kneeled on the wall where my TV used to be.
In a drunken rage, I broke the TV because I would not say I liked news reminding me about the murder. I keep hoping that something will happen like a clue or something.
Suddenly I heard a rock hit my window. I looked out the window; there stood a man.