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 told him not to wear that damn mask.

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

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