A Mother's Love.

My eyes feel as heavy as my heart as I gaze out of the window watching the morning sun rise. Normally such a serene sight, but this morning, nothing can lift my mood. I take a drag of my cigarette and stub it out in the ash tray that is already spilling over with burnt ends. I stand, pushing my chair back gently and pull my dressing gown around me shutting out the chill in the air. I pick up the ash tray and empty it into the bin, reaching and switching on the kettle as I do so. My stomach is already awash with tea, but it's all I can think to do at this time.

I look through to the lounge and lean back hard onto the work surface, arms crossed. The peacefully sleeping face that meets my eyes, that used fill my heart with love, now fills my heart with disgust and loathing...and love. My son. How can he sleep there so peacefully. I survey his body, contorted into a foetal position. His knuckles are raw with scabs and dried blood.

I look down at my feet as I sigh and push the black sack by my side with my toes. The top of it falls aside and I can see the clothes inside. I swallow hard.

I was woken with a start at 1 o'clock in the morning by my son shaking me. He was gabbling urgently and had my dressing gown in his hand. He was pulling at my arm for me to get out of bed. I'd dragged myself out wondering what on earth could be so urgent.

We went downstairs and I'd switched the light on turning around to look at my son. The sight before me had made my heart leap to my throat. He'd stood before me, arms dropped to his side, eyes wide and mouth open like a vulnerable child. Though, he wasn't a vulnerable child was he. He was my 19 year old son, who stood before me in ripped clothes, covered in blood. When I say covered, I mean covered. All he could manage was...'Mum...'.

I had dragged him upstairs. I'd gone into overdrive. I'd ripped his blood sodden rags from him and manhandled him into the bath, I'd showered him and scrubbed at his skin, and ignored his protests. I didn't even know what had been going through my mind. The blood had swirled down the plug hole, I'd scrubbed him so hard I hadn't even known what was his blood and what was the 'victims' blood. I'd wrapped him in a towel and ordered him downstairs while I rinsed the bath.

He'd already made tea when I got down stairs and was sitting at the table, legs flicking nervously, biting his nails. He couldn't look at me. I'd sat down exhausted opposite him and sparked up two cigarettes, and passed one to him.

'Well?'

And that was when the story came out. The light of my life was now a murderer. He owed some money to some 'heavies' and had got behind with the payments. Not very nice men by all accounts. I believed him. Anyway, he knew they had been asking after him and had been avoiding all of his local haunts to avoid them. Seems the plan went wrong though and they tracked him down and waited for him. Jumped him while he was at his most vulnerable. But he was ready for them and was carrying a knife. I was horrified by his confessions as his story unfolded. Animatedly he'd continued until he reach the moment that he had stabbed someone. I'd wanted to be spared the details but my shock had numbed me as I'd watched him continue. It was like I'd watched him from the outside.

His head had dropped to the table and he'd gripped it as he rocked in his chair. I'd suddenly remembered the clothes upstairs and jumped up and scrabbled under the sink for a black sack. I'd ripped one off and ran back upstairs scooping the clothes into it, being careful not to touch the blood. I hadn't want my daughter to find this in the morning. I'd sunk to my knees and cleaned the floor smeared with blood, tears streaming down my face. I'd stifled back my sobs and it had made my throat tighten. It hurt. His pain was now my pain.

So that is how I got here now. I have no qualms about the actions I carried out. I have no qualms about covering up for the son that I love so dearly. I have no qualms about being accessory to his terrible deed.

It's down to a mother's love.