I never heard my son scream like that—if you could even call it a scream. It was more like a guttural lamentation that escapes from deep within you when you’re forced to witness your own murder play before you like a movie.
It had to be a dream—mine, not his. But when I awoke, he was still screaming.
I sprinted for his room and nearly let out my own terrified yelp when I spotted the man with a wolf for a face standing in the window.
It took a few minutes for my eyes to focus, but when they did, I recognized my husband instantly.
I approached the window—fight or flight guiding my steps. My son and I will be witnessing a murder today after all. Just not our own.
© 2022 Nortina Simmons