A Mother's Regret

It was well after midnight when Francine finally packed away her cleaning products and headed up to bed. Stan was already there, lying on his side facing away from her. She didn't know if he was awake; he did not move as she climbed into bed beside him. Part of her wanted to reach over and touch him, longing for some comfort, but she couldn't bear to have him jerk his shoulder away yet again, so Francine merely settled back against her pillows.

Though she was exhausted - every bone in her body ached - she could not sleep. All she could think about was Steve, and how afraid he must have been that terrible night. She could think of nothing else, no matter how hard she tried. It was like there were gigantic screens inside her head, so even if she tried to close her eyes, she could still see Steve walking inside that house. The screens showed her other things, too; like what actually happened. (Well, what she believed happened; they still didn't know all of the details, and they likely never would.) It wasn't like she wanted to think of this stuff, but she just couldn't help herself.

The thoughts spun around her head like a swarm of angry bees, until she managed to drop off to sleep a few hours later. Even in sleep, she wasn't safe, as she dreamt about it every night. Well, 'dream' was the wrong word; they were the most awful, realistic nightmares. Nightmares in which all she could do was stand and watch helplessly.

"Mommy, help me!"

Francine awoke with a jerk, gasping. She looked around for Steve, even though she knew he wasn't there. Hearing him was probably the worst thing, because it sounded as though he was right next to her, and she wasn't able to help him.

Every waking moment, it plagued her thoughts. That was why she cleaned; to drown the screaming out. Because then she couldn't hear anything, and if she couldn't hear anything, then she couldn't torture herself. Well, she couldn't torture herself by hearing Steve; no matter how much she cleaned, she couldn't stop the bad thoughts, and the what-ifs.

Did he call for her? Francine supposed he did; he probably called for his dad and sister, as well. It hurt her heart to think of it, of her poor baby crying out for help that would never come.

Francine didn't drop off again until the early hours of the morning.

She woke up a bit later than she normally would have, but it was no big deal; it wasn't as though she had a child to wake for school or anything any more. Her only school-age child was dead, so she really had no reason to be up early now.

Trudging into the kitchen, Francine got to work cleaning. Who cared about making breakfast? Not her, that was for sure. Cooking didn't seem to distract her the way cleaning and drinking did. She passed Roger at the kitchen table as she grabbed her supplies. He had a wine-tasting book open on the table in front of him, along with several glasses of various wines. It was his way of drowning his sorrows without actually having to admit that he missed Steve.

Running on coffee and heartache, she began tidying the pristine kitchen until it sparkled, before moving onto tackle the equally clean living-room.

"Mama, make him stop!"

Her hand slipped on the window, making it squeak harshly. She heard it plain as day, as though Steve was in the room. It confused her; she knew she wasn't imagining hearing him, and she knew she wasn't really hearing it, either. Francine could not make sense of it, and she moved quicker... anything to drown the sounds out.

Pulling a bottle of wine down from her stash on the bookcase, Francine uncorked it and took a swig. As she continued to drink, Steve's screaming began to fade away, and Francine sighed.