Mary swerves, missing a bike messenger and clipping a Ford Fiesta as she blows through the red light, her phone tight to her ear. Muffles and mixed sounds. Silence, then a soft-voice, desperate and hiding, pleads, “Help me.” The voice disappears and an icy, older man’s voice responds, “You called your mother?” followed by a vicious giggle that makes her skin crawl. The phone is picked up and the voice speaks directly into it, “I have a shotgun pointed at your son’s head.”
She yells, “Sasha! I’m coming!”
The boy’s voice returns, “She loves me.”
The man responds, “I’ve watched you for months through these windows and dear mom hasn’t come once.”
With shaken conviction he repeats, “She loves me.”
“I love you, Sasha!” Mary screams, cranking the wheel and sending the car flying over the median.
“How? She thinks you’re a failure! A mistake! She knows people look away when they see you. She does too! You reek of shit and wear the same clothes for weeks. No one wants to be near you. You’re a crying, masturbating freak and a tiresome burden to everyone. She hopes I kill you.”
“Don’t listen to him!” She shouts, side swiping a row of parked cars to pass the stopped traffic. The man’s giggle escalates to a long, slow laugh, “This is mercy.”
Snot runs down Mary’s nose. She’s so close. Time slows and all her mother’s love reaches out and speaks with the voice she used on the day he was born, “Please don’t.”
Garbled muffles return, the sounds of the phone being covered and uncovered. She prays they are fighting and her son will win. Making the final turn onto his street, the car jumps the curb, smashes the mailbox and skids across the yard to a stop. Leaping out, she rushes towards his apartment. She can see his third floor window but only the ceiling. There’s silence. Closer. Almost there.
Her son’s back comes into view when the deep voice says, “Or maybe I’ll just kill…her..too.” Sasha yells, “No!” while he turns around, looking at his reflection. He is holding a shotgun under his chin. His tortured face is flushed with tears, one hand reaches for the glass, to his mother, as she reaches for him. The other hand pulls the trigger.