My child ran, curious and questioning, to me. I lay asleep on my bed, foolishly letting my unattended child play. And he came up to me. He came up to me with a blade pointed to me.

Mommy, mommy what is this, he asked me, and seeing what his tiny hands held panicked me.

Horrified, I lifted my child, held him. I told him no…but I did not remove the object immediately from his grasp.

But seconds are precious.

And so was my son.

He was in my arms, my son, my child, was in my arms. My feet where striding quickly before they began to loose their support. My brain rebelled against me.

My whole world shook. Violently. My body was no longer mine. But I held tightly. Tightly to my son. My body wished it so.

And then my child screamed. And I held tighter, and I jerked still. My child choked, my child said mommy. And I fell.

I lay dazed after. I did not know what happened. Did not know why I was coated in blood.

And I looked next to me. My child, my son, lay barely breathing. My son lay impaled.

And his lifeblood ran to my hair and I screamed.

But my body would not permit me control.

And I watched my son, my child.

As he murmured mommy.

As he soaked the carpet with blood.

And all I could do was lay there, lay next to my child.

And before my husband could come home, I writhed again. And my child cried.

Cried from pain. Cried from fear. Cried from love.

After my body ceased its shaking, I looked to my child again and screamed for help.

But no one heard my desperate plea; no one heard the maternal agony ravaging my voice.

And my child cried still. His little throat choked. And when the faint rising of his chest faded, I knew.

I knew.

At that moment, the indescribable darkness seeped into my chest. And I writhed and wailed, cursed my wretched body and tried to move in vain.

And I looked to my child, and this time it was I who screamed his name.