CHAPTER 4
The hallways were subdued, students moving slowly, eyes downcast as the reality of Charles' death set in. The news had spread quickly, rippling through classrooms and social circles. Teachers offered quiet words of sympathy, their own faces strained, while clusters of students whispered in small groups, casting nervous glances around. The tragedy had made everyone feel vulnerable, and Charles' absence left a void in the room.
James walked through the halls, seemingly unperturbed by the somber air around him. He kept his head high, expression neutral, even as the other students exchanged tearful looks and comforting gestures. He moved as if in his own world, distant from the grief of his peers, catching a few puzzled looks from classmates who wondered why he didn't seem affected.
In math class, students tried to focus, but the teacher, Miss Hannah, eventually gave up on her lesson, unable to hide her own sadness. She invited anyone who wanted to share memories of Charles to speak, creating a brief circle of remembrance. As a few students spoke about Charles' kindness and his way of making everyone feel included, James sat quietly, listening but not engaging. His gaze drifted, and once or twice, a strange smile played at the corner of his lips before he caught himself and reverted to his usual blank expression.
That evening, as Rebecca washed the dishes, her mind replayed the events of the day over and over. She'd seen other parents at school, consoling one another, trying to process the loss. But there was a niggling feeling that she couldn't shake: the odd way James had acted.
The more she thought about it, the more she felt something was off. Over the past few weeks, she'd noticed little things about James' behavior. He'd been quieter than usual, with moments where he seemed almost… absorbed. He'd lingered longer over meals, muttering to himself when he thought she couldn't hear. She'd even heard him whisper "Charles" once or twice late at night, but she'd told herself it was harmless, just the name of a boy he knew at school.
Rebecca's mind drifted back to his strange routines, like how he'd spend hours in his room, meticulously arranging his things. And that cut on his arm. She remembered it so clearly now, a nasty gash he'd brushed off as an accident. But it hadn't looked like an accident—it was too deep, too intentional, as though it had been self-inflicted.
Suddenly, her stomach twisted. She realized she'd seen him look at Charles in a way she couldn't quite place, an intensity that seemed out of character for a twelve-year-old. It had been there at dinner when she mentioned Charles in passing, and James had gone quiet, his hand clenched around his fork. She'd felt the tension then, but she had dismissed it, thinking he was simply going through a phase.
But now, the pattern was unmistakable. The whispers, the cut, the quiet obsession. Rebecca felt her heart pound faster as the unease grew into dread. Was her son harboring feelings she hadn't understood? Could he have been connected to the horrible thing that happened to Charles?
Taking a deep breath, she tried to shake off the horrible notion, whispering to herself, "It's just a coincidence. He couldn't have…he's just a boy."
But no matter how she tried, the pieces fell into a disturbing picture. And now, even though she couldn't bear to believe it, she found herself staring at the staircase with a mixture of fear and confusion, realizing that her own son was at the center of a darkness she hadn't seen coming.
Rebbecca knew she had to talk to him, she had to do it. Tonight.
Rebecca took a steadying breath before knocking on James' door. She had rehearsed the words in her mind, planning how to approach him gently. But the moment was daunting, heavy with the possibility of secrets she wasn't prepared to face.
"James," she called softly, hearing a quiet shuffle from inside. "Can I talk to you?"
The door opened, and James stood there, his face a blank mask, as if he'd expected her. He stepped back, allowing her to enter, and she perched on the edge of his neatly made bed, hands clasped tightly together.
"James… I want to talk to you about Charles."
He didn't respond, his eyes fixed on a spot just past her shoulder, but his jaw tightened slightly.
"I know this has been a hard time for everyone," she continued, trying to keep her voice steady. "But I've noticed… I've noticed that maybe this is affecting you more than you're letting on."
A small tremor flickered across his face, a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth. He looked down, and his shoulders slumped, as if a hidden weight had finally settled on him. "Mom… I—I loved him."
Rebecca's breath caught. It was unexpected, raw. James' words hung heavy in the air, charging the room with a new, almost unbearable tension.
"You… you loved him?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.
James nodded, letting out a shaky breath. "Yes. I… I wanted him to notice me, to like me the way I liked him." He paused, his eyes glistening with what seemed like genuine emotion. "He was perfect, Mom. And one day, I… I got up the courage to kiss him."
Rebecca felt a lump rise in her throat as she listened. "Oh, James… did he… did he feel the same way?"
James lowered his head, letting a few silent tears fall as he bit his lip, putting on a display of vulnerability that he knew would work. "No. He didn't. He told me I was sick… wrong." His voice was barely a whisper, and he gave a slight sniff, carefully timing the effect. "But… I couldn't help it, Mom. I just wanted to be close to him."
Rebecca reached out instinctively, resting a hand on his shoulder. She felt her own eyes well up, her heart aching for him. This was her son—a young, sensitive boy who had trusted her enough to reveal something so personal, so private. Whatever reservations she had, whatever dark suspicions had crossed her mind, they seemed to fade, overshadowed by the sight of her child's apparent heartbreak.
"I'm so sorry, honey," she murmured, pulling him into a gentle embrace. "I… I had no idea you were feeling all of this. If only you'd told me sooner."
James leaned into her hug, his face hidden from view as a faint, chilling smile twisted his lips. The lie had worked perfectly. He'd bought himself some time, and he could feel the hold he now had over her, her sympathy locking her into the narrative he'd spun.
Inwardly, he felt nothing, no sorrow or guilt—only a cold satisfaction.
Here's a tense scene that captures James's destructive ritual, his mother's horrified realization, and the escalating confrontation between them.
---
James knelt in the backyard, his gaze cold and fixed as he carefully placed item after item into the metal fire pit. A few photos, a tattered note Charles had once passed to him in class, and the small picture he used to kiss daily—all reminders of a feeling that now only tasted like ash in his mouth. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a lighter, its flame flickering in the evening air.
One by one, the mementos caught fire, curling in on themselves as they shriveled and darkened, turning into ash. The flames reflected in his eyes, an unsettling intensity gleaming there as he watched each memory burn away.
From behind him, he heard a sharp gasp. He turned slowly to see his mother, standing at the edge of the yard, her face pale with realization.
"James… what are you doing?" she asked, her voice trembling.
He met her gaze, unblinking. "Getting rid of him," he said simply, his voice flat and devoid of any feeling. "Charles is gone, so it doesn't matter anymore."
Rebecca took a shaky step forward, her hand covering her mouth as she pieced together the horrible truth. She remembered the odd behaviors, the cryptic mutterings, the silence that had engulfed him after Charles's death. And now, seeing him burn everything he once cherished about the boy, the pieces fell into place.
"You… you did this," she whispered, her tone somewhere between fear and fury. "You… killed him."
James didn't answer. The silence stretched between them, heavy and dense, until Rebecca's horror boiled over. Without thinking, she rushed forward and slapped him, hard, across the face. The sound cracked through the quiet air, and for a moment, James just stood there, a slow, twisted smirk forming on his lips.
"What are you smiling at?" she demanded, her voice shaking with rage.
He looked at her with that same eerie calm. "You wanted me perfect, Mom. Well, maybe this is what perfect looks like." His voice was barely above a whisper, as chilling as it was controlled.
Rebecca backed away slightly, but James stepped forward, matching her movement. He clenched his fists, the small flame of the lighter still flickering in his hand. He looked at her with an intensity that made her heart pound, a silent threat dancing in his gaze.
"Don't look at me like that," she whispered, fear evident in her eyes.
He took another step toward her, his fingers tightening around the lighter, and for a fleeting, terrible moment, the thought crossed his mind. She could join the pile. She could disappear just like Charles, just like all his troubles, her control finally snuffed out. He imagined striking the flame, watching it take hold…
But then, her wide, tear-filled eyes stopped him. A faint tremor flickered in his chest, and his hand froze mid-air. He dropped the lighter back into his pocket, stepping away as if coming back to reality.
Rebecca scrambled to her feet, her gaze fixed on him, filled with disbelief and horror. She didn't say another word as she backed away, shaking. Without a second glance, she turned and rushed back into the house, locking the door behind her.
James stood alone in the backyard, staring down at the smoldering ashes, his hands shaking slightly, though he didn't understand why.
Rebecca sat on the edge of her bed, hands trembling as she tried to steady her breathing. She heard the soft creak of the floorboards outside her door and looked up, her heart seizing. There, in the dim light of the hallway, James stood, holding the iron rod with a deliberate, menacing grip. His face was cast in shadow, but his eyes gleamed with a disturbing intensity.
He stepped into her room, each slow, calculated step echoing against the walls. As he came closer, Rebecca could see that he was smiling—a cold, humorless smile that sent a chill down her spine.
"Mamá," he whispered, his voice low, almost mocking. He raised the rod just slightly, his fingers tightening around it. "Te acuerdas cuando me pedías ser perfecto? When you pushed me... so hard... to be the child you always wanted?"
Rebecca swallowed, her mouth dry, but she said nothing.
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a chilling murmur, each word laced with venom. "¿Qué te parece ahora? This is who I am, mamá. Todo lo que siempre has querido, pero también todo lo que tú misma has creado."
She tried to look away, but he stepped forward, holding her gaze. He raised the rod just a fraction higher, watching as her expression shifted from fear to pure terror.
"I took care of Charles," he said in a low, dangerous tone, his voice carrying an edge of twisted satisfaction. "Y ahora… you can stop pretending, mamá. Stop pretending that you didn't see what was happening. Stop pretending you didn't *make* this happen."
Rebecca managed to find her voice, though it was barely more than a whisper. "James, please…"
But he interrupted her, his voice hardening. "Te odio por lo que me hiciste," he said, his eyes blazing with anger. "You took everything from me—my innocence, my choices. Y ahora, te quedas con esto." He tapped the rod against his hand, his gaze never leaving hers.
Rebecca's lips quivered, her face drained of all color. She felt the urge to run, to scream, but something in James's gaze kept her frozen. After a long, tense moment, he slowly lowered the rod, his smirk fading into a look of cold resolve.
"Remember this, mom," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You wanted perfection. And now, you'll live with it."
With that, he turned and left the room, the door creaking shut behind him, leaving Rebecca in silence—paralyzed with fear, guilt, and the dreadful understanding that she had created the monster now walking freely through her home.
**Flashback Scene: Four Years Ago**
Four years earlier, James sat on the edge of his bed, clutching the wrinkled photo of his father in his small hands. The memory of his father's face—warm, loving, full of life—was beginning to blur, even though it had only been days since they'd said goodbye. His dad's passing had left an empty ache inside him, a quiet, hollow space that he didn't understand but felt everywhere.
A knock on his door brought him out of his trance. Rebecca walked in, her eyes dry and sharp, as though she'd moved on already. She glanced around his room, her gaze settling on the scattered toys, the abandoned baseball glove. Her expression tightened. She sighed, a hint of impatience threading through her tone.
"James," she said, her voice brisk. "We've been given an incredible opportunity. There's a mother-and-son competition in two weeks, and I signed us up."
He looked up at her, bewildered. "But... Dad just..."
She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "I know, but we can't stay stuck in the past. Your father would have wanted us to make something of ourselves. Now, we're going to be in the public eye, and you'll need to look your best. Show them how talented you are."
The words felt like pebbles striking him, each one pulling him further from his grief. He didn't want to be in a contest. He wanted his dad back. He wanted someone to tell him it was okay to cry, that it was okay to miss him. But his mother's determined stare was resolute, unyielding.
And so, for the next two weeks, James was swept into rehearsals, drills, and coaching sessions. Rebecca mapped out every detail: his expressions, his posture, even how wide to smile. She filled his days with scripts and lessons, leaving no time to mourn. His tears turned to silence, then into a cold, quiet focus.
Two weeks later, they won. The lights flashed, and the applause thundered. James stood there, holding a golden trophy, his mother's arm wrapped around his shoulders as she beamed at the cameras. His face was perfect, his performance flawless. But something inside him felt brittle, like a piece of him had been lost, abandoned back in that bedroom where he'd held his father's photo.
---
**Two Years Later**
James was now a seasoned contestant, a "perfect" kid in every way his mother wanted. They were on magazine covers, invited to galas, and James wore the mask of excellence. He won every competition, conquered every stage with a precision that astounded the crowds and judges. His mother's dreams had become his life, and with each trophy, their bank account grew.
But as the wealth accumulated and Rebecca basked in the attention, James grew hollow. Every smile, every sophisticated answer, every calculated movement became a reflection of the ideal his mother had sculpted. He wasn't allowed to stumble or cry or even laugh without permission. And as he transformed into her "perfect" creation, a darkness settled within him—a quiet anger that waited in silence, masked by the perfection his mother demanded.
PRESENT DAY
** Greta's House**
Rebecca sat on the edge of the plush armchair in Greta's living room, her fingers gripping her cup of tea so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. She glanced around, eyes darting to the windows as if she was afraid someone might see her there. Greta, sensing her friend's discomfort, settled in across from her, watching quietly as Rebecca took a shaky sip.
"Rebecca," Greta began gently, "you seem… tense. Is everything all right?"
Rebecca managed a brittle smile, her lips barely curving up at the edges. She swallowed, setting her cup on the small table beside her. "It's... It's James," she said slowly, picking her words with careful deliberation. "He's been under a lot of stress lately. And… I don't know, sometimes I just don't recognize him anymore."
Greta's face softened with concern. "Oh, Rebecca, is it something at school? I've heard kids can be rough these days."
Rebecca let out a mirthless laugh, the sound barely above a whisper. "I wish it were something as simple as school troubles. No, it's... it's something deeper. He... He's become so different—so cold, so controlled. It's as though there's this wall around him, and when he lets me see behind it..." She stopped, her eyes glazing with fear as she remembered the scene in her room, the way he'd held the iron rod.
Rebecca hesitated, then leaned forward, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Have you ever felt afraid of your own child, Greta?"
The question hung in the air between them, thickening the silence. Greta's brows knitted together as she considered her friend's words. "Afraid of him? Rebecca, I'm sure he's just going through something. He's always been such a bright, responsible kid. Maybe… maybe he just needs some guidance?"
Rebecca's fingers tightened around her cup again, her gaze distant. "Guidance?" she murmured, more to herself than to Greta. "Maybe he's beyond that now." She took a steadying breath, pushing herself to sound normal, as if the fear was simply part of a passing phase. "I mean, he's just stressed," she amended, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You know how it is. Just… high expectations, I suppose."
Greta's eyes softened with sympathy. "Of course, Rebecca. If there's anything I can do... maybe he'd like to come over for dinner with the twins sometime? I'm sure the change of scene would do him some good."
Rebecca's smile trembled. "Thank you, Greta. That's kind of you." She took another sip of her tea, avoiding her friend's concerned gaze, knowing she couldn't possibly explain the truth of the horrors she felt unfolding in her own home.
Rebecca lay asleep, her breathing shallow and steady, barely aware of the quiet footsteps approaching her bed. In the dim light cast by the streetlamp outside, James's face was a calm, unreadable mask. He held a kitchen knife in one hand, its blade glinting coldly in the low light, as he slowly leaned over his mother's sleeping form.
The tip of the blade touched her throat, feather-light, and Rebecca's eyes snapped open. She gasped, the terror freezing her voice before she could scream, her heart racing as her son's calm face hovered inches from her own.
"Shh…" James whispered softly, his voice eerily steady. "It would be foolish to kill you now, wouldn't it?"
She stared at him, wide-eyed, her lips trembling. "James… what are you doing?" she whispered, choking on her own fear.
He gave a slight smile, almost pitying, as if amused by her confusion. "I just thought I'd stop by, have a little chat. Since you've been… concerned about me." His voice was soft, with a hint of menace that sent a chill down her spine. He traced the blade along her throat, not cutting but reminding her of its presence. "Relax. If I wanted to hurt you, I would've done it already."
Her breath came in shallow gasps, but she dared not move. She could only listen, helpless, as he continued in a quiet, almost conversational tone.
"You see, Mom, I think about everything very carefully." He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Every morning, I start my day like anyone else. I look in the mirror, and I smile. I see perfection." His voice took on a singsong quality, almost like he was speaking to himself. "I brush my teeth, wash my face, put on the best clothes. Everything has to be just right. Every detail."
Rebecca watched him, her body stiff with dread, unable to understand the madness spilling from his mouth. She swallowed, her throat bobbing against the knife's edge.
"Then, of course," he continued, "I head to school, play the part. I'm everyone's idea of a 'perfect' boy. Smart, polite, charming." His face darkened, and his gaze became distant, as though recalling something twisted but thrilling. "That's how I made Charles notice me. Or… that's how I thought I could make him notice me."
He pulled back slightly, watching her reaction, the knife still poised in his hand. "And when he didn't… I had to fix it." He gave a small, chilling laugh, his voice barely above a whisper. "It wasn't hard. The funny thing about trust, Mom, is that once you have it, you can do anything."
Rebecca's voice trembled as she tried to speak, "James, what… what did you do?"
He looked at her, his face softening into an expression that, in another setting, might have been mistaken for affection. "I killed him, Mom. I made it slow, made him understand what it felt like to ignore me, to make me feel… powerless."
He leaned in close again, his eyes dark with intensity. "And you know what? I made sure he felt every second. I watched the life drain out of him. And all the while, I knew no one would ever suspect me, the perfect, innocent boy." His tone was light, almost amused, as though sharing a secret.
Rebecca's breath caught in her throat, horror and disbelief filling her eyes. "James, you… you're sick… this… this isn't you…"
He tilted his head, a faint smile on his lips. "Oh, but it is, Mom. This is me, the real me." His gaze turned icy, his voice lowering to a deadly calm. "And one day, I'll do the same to you. Not now, of course. That would be too… predictable. I'll wait. Maybe I'll let you think you're safe, that you can control me." His face split into a cold, mocking smile. "But I'll be there, watching, waiting, biding my time. And when I do it, you'll know it's because you made me this way."
He slowly brought his lips down to hers, brushing a chilling, taunting kiss over her mouth, leaving her frozen in terror. He pulled back, his face still and emotionless, and whispered, "Go back to sleep, Mom. Sweet dreams."
With that, he straightened up, the knife falling to his side, and he walked out of the room, leaving her trembling and broken, knowing that the monster she had feared was her own son—and there was no one left to save her.
---
Rebecca's eyes were swollen, red-rimmed from a sleepless night. Each time she closed them, James's twisted smile and those icy words echoed in her mind, chilling her to the bone. She knew she couldn't stay in that house alone with him today—not after everything he'd revealed.
As dawn broke, she found herself at James's door, forcing herself to put on a calm, controlled mask. Gently, she knocked, just as he was lacing up his perfectly polished shoes.
"James," she began, her voice careful, yet warm. "I was thinking… why don't you come to the office with me today? You've been working so hard. One day away won't hurt."
James looked up, his face blank at first before it softened into his practiced "perfect" smile. "Sure, Mom," he replied smoothly, like any obedient child.
As they walked to the car, Rebecca's heart raced, hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than usual. She couldn't tell if he noticed or even cared; James sat beside her, humming softly, fingers tapping a steady beat on his knee. She couldn't get the image out of her head—the knife he'd held to her throat, the calm way he'd described how he'd kill her… someday.
In the car, he watched the world go by, acting as though last night had been a dream. "Thanks for taking me, Mom," he said, glancing at her with that unsettling, too-perfect smile. It was almost as if he enjoyed watching her discomfort.
At her office, Rebecca tried to focus on her work but couldn't shake the creeping fear. James roamed around, polite and composed, meeting her coworkers, drawing compliments for his politeness and maturity. No one could see the monster hiding behind his angelic face. As he moved through the office, Rebecca could see that he was observing everyone, every detail—always calculating, always in control.
By lunch, she felt drained, barely able to keep up the façade. James seemed to sense her weakness, his eyes holding a dark glint as they returned to her desk.
"Thanks for bringing me, Mom. I feel… inspired," he said quietly, his voice filled with a strange, mocking warmth.
As Rebecca sat at her desk, attempting to find some semblance of normalcy in her day, James returned from his stroll around the office and placed his phone casually on the corner of her desk.
"I'll be right back, Mom. Just grabbing some water," he said, his voice innocent, almost too polite. He flashed her a charming smile, then turned and disappeared down the hall toward the restroom.
Rebecca's gaze drifted to the phone. She knew she shouldn't, but last night's threats still echoed in her mind, raw and haunting. Hesitating for a moment, she picked it up, her fingers trembling as she unlocked the screen.
The wallpaper struck her immediately: a photo of Charles, his bright smile beaming against a sunlit background. Her heart skipped a beat as she scrolled through James's gallery, hundreds of pictures of Charles—some casual, taken during school events, and others… some were candid, almost voyeuristic, captured from afar. She shivered, feeling her stomach churn as she swiped through image after image, each more unsettling than the last.
Then, in his notes app, a file caught her eye. It was labeled simply, "Plan."
The words hit her like a freight train.
---
**Where:** *The attic*
**When:** *November 19, 2025*
**How:** *Strangle her*
---
She stared, her pulse quickening. November 19th was exactly one month from today. She felt a nauseating wave of disbelief as she realized it was her own murder James had meticulously planned.
Rebecca clapped a hand over her mouth, suppressing a scream. She read over the details again, hoping she'd misinterpreted, but the words were clear as day. Her son—the same boy she had raised and molded, sacrificed so much for—had calculated when and how he would end her life. She could barely breathe as she closed the note, her thoughts a chaotic swirl of fear and betrayal.
Just then, she heard footsteps behind her. Rebecca's hands were shaking as she quickly set the phone back on her desk, forcing her expression to remain neutral.
James returned, looking down at her with those cold, calculating eyes. He paused, glancing at his phone. For a brief moment, Rebecca's heart stopped, afraid he would realize she'd seen his dark secret. But James simply picked up the phone, slipping it into his pocket with an unreadable expression.
"Are you all right, Mom?" he asked, his voice soft, his gaze studying her.
Rebecca forced a smile, swallowing her terror. "Of course, honey," she replied, struggling to keep her voice steady. "Just… thinking about work."
James gave her a slight nod, his lips curling in a smirk that seemed far too knowing.
Rebecca gripped the steering wheel tightly as they started their drive home. Her knuckles were white, and her hands trembled slightly, though she did her best to hide it. She barely glanced at James beside her, who sat in silence, gazing out the window with a faint, satisfied smile curling at the corners of his mouth. His mind was alive with a dark sense of accomplishment; another piece of his meticulous plan had fallen perfectly into place. He had deliberately planted his phone in her reach, knowing that curiosity would push her to look. Now, she knew the truth—or at least, a taste of it—and he could already see the fear settling into her.
As they drove, Rebecca's heart raced, her mind spiraling as she replayed the terrifying words from his phone over and over. *Where: the attic. When: November 19, 2025. How: strangle her.* She could still see it, etched into her thoughts, her mind unwilling to believe it but unable to let go. The world outside the windshield blurred, her pulse pounding in her ears. She couldn't fully grasp the reality that her son had calculated her murder, set for a date only a month away.
The road ahead seemed to darken as her vision started to blur. The fear had caught up with her body, draining her strength as she struggled to focus on the road. James, deep in his own twisted satisfaction, noticed nothing, simply leaning back and closing his eyes.
Suddenly, Rebecca's grip on the steering wheel loosened, and her head fell forward, her vision going black. She slumped against the wheel, her foot pressing unconsciously on the gas pedal. The car veered sharply to the right, crossing the lane and heading for the edge of the road.
James snapped out of his thoughts at the jolt, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of the approaching ditch. "Mom!" he shouted, lunging forward, but it was too late. The car plummeted off the road, crashing down a small embankment before coming to a violent stop in a ditch. Airbags deployed, cushioning the impact, but the force shook both of them. The world spun in a chaotic blur before fading to black.
---
When James slowly regained consciousness, he found himself lying in a hospital bed, white walls and sterile lights overhead. The memory of the crash hit him immediately. He moved his arm, which ached painfully, feeling the bandage wrapped around it. He winced as he tried to sit up, glancing to the side of the room. Rebecca lay in a bed nearby, her face pale against the stark white sheets, eyes still closed.
A nurse entered, checking James's vitals, offering him a gentle smile. "You're lucky, young man. It was a rough accident, but you're both going to be okay," she said kindly.
James only nodded, masking the smirk that threatened to surface. He'd barely noticed his mother's growing panic during the ride, but it had played right into his hands. This outcome, a hospital stay and her weakened state, was another opportunity for him.
**TWO HOURS LATER**
James lay in his hospital bed, his gaze distant, his expression hollow. The doctors said he'd experienced a severe shock from the crash, something that had left him weakened and vulnerable. His typically sharp, calculating eyes were now dull, and his hands trembled as if they could no longer grasp control over his own mind. The doctor had explained to Rebecca that the trauma, coupled with his apparent exhaustion, had induced a state of disorientation, and he would need extensive observation. He was showing signs of a condition that caused him to appear, if only for a time, scared, detached, even lost in his own head.
Rebecca listened to the doctor with a carefully blank face, a storm of thoughts swirling behind her calm façade. She glanced over at James, who lay limp against the sterile white sheets, his eyes heavy with a dazed confusion. For the first time in years, she saw him as vulnerable—no longer the son she feared but just a child lost in his own mind, detached from his calculating self.
As the doctor continued explaining the treatment plan, Rebecca realized this might be her one chance. She could leave. While he was in this state, under the watchful eye of doctors and nurses, she could slip away. She would have time to breathe, to think clearly, to prepare herself for what she would do next. She could escape this nightmare, if only temporarily.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she carefully arranged her face into a mask of maternal concern. "Thank you, Doctor," she said softly. "Please... do everything you can for him." She risked another glance at James, feigning the look of a worried mother, though her true thoughts churned beneath her calm expression.
After the doctor left, Rebecca stepped over to James's bedside. She forced herself to smile as she placed a hand on his shoulder. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?" she asked gently.
James looked up at her, his eyes glassy, almost childlike. His mouth opened slightly, as though he wanted to speak, but the words didn't come. He looked lost, defeated—a shadow of his former self.
Rebecca swallowed, steeling herself. "Don't worry," she murmured softly, brushing a lock of his hair from his forehead. "Just rest. You'll be okay." But the reassurance was as much for herself as it was for him.
As James drifted back into a light, unsteady sleep, Rebecca felt a determination rise within her. She had to escape, even if only for a little while. She had to get far enough away to gain control over her own life and find help before it was too late.
She glanced back at the door, making a mental note of the visiting hours and the times the nurses checked in on them. She would be careful, meticulous, as she planned her escape.
Rebecca sat in the chair by James's bedside, her fingers nervously twisting her wedding ring—a habit she'd long since abandoned but now returned to, a symbol of the nervous tension coursing through her. She looked at him as he lay there, seemingly asleep, his breathing slow and even. His face had an innocent softness to it, almost childlike, yet she knew better than to be fooled. She had seen what lurked behind those eyes.
After a moment, Rebecca exhaled shakily, her voice barely a whisper. "I have to get out of here. I can't stay in this nightmare anymore." She glanced around the dim room, watching the way the light flickered in sync with the soft beeps of the machines. Her gaze drifted back to James, and she spoke even more softly, almost as if she were talking to herself.
"When he's better... when he's lucid again... I'll take him to the police. I'll tell them everything. Every detail, every lie, every horrible thing he's done. It'll be over. He won't be able to hurt anyone else. He won't be able to hurt me."
She stared out the window, lost in thought as her voice grew firmer, her words weighted with resolve. "I'll pack my things tonight, just what I need, and I'll go first thing tomorrow. I'll tell them at the police station that I suspect he's dangerous, that he needs serious help..."
What Rebecca didn't realize was that James's eyes, though mostly closed, were just slightly open, watching her through slits. His breathing remained steady, but beneath that still expression, he listened intently, the words sinking into him one by one.
As she continued, her voice a low hum, James's fingers slowly curled into fists under the covers. Inside, he seethed with a dark, controlled rage. She would betray him? Turn him over to the police? He knew he couldn't allow that, not now. Not ever.
His mind raced as he lay there, formulating a new plan, one that would ensure she couldn't interfere with his life any longer. He thought about the iron rod he'd used before, and the dark satisfaction of silence that followed. He knew he'd need something close at hand, something quiet but effective.
He glanced around the room as subtly as he could, committing to memory the items he could use, calculating the number of steps to her bedside. He'd wait until the dead of night, until she felt safe enough to sleep. And then...
A slow, sinister smile crept across his face as he lay back and closed his eyes completely, sinking into a semblance of sleep.
This time, she wouldn't see morning.
The clock on the hospital wall clicked to 2:03 a.m. James's eyes opened, adjusting quickly to the dim, sterile light filtering in from the hallway. His mother, Rebecca, lay asleep on the small couch beside him, unaware, vulnerable. He quietly shifted, reaching under his hospital bed where he'd hidden the small, surgical knife he'd taken earlier in the evening. Holding his breath, he rose slowly, stepping softly toward her.
Without hesitation, he placed his left hand around the handle of the knife and his right hand over her mouth, stifling any scream that might escape. Rebecca's eyes flew open, her gaze wide with terror as she took in her son's face, devoid of warmth, etched with cold determination.
"Te odio," he whispered, his voice dripping with venom. "Te odio con cada parte de mi alma, mamá," he continued, spewing words of hatred in a dark stream of Spanish. He held her gaze, taking in the fear he'd always imagined seeing in her eyes.
Trembling, she tried to beg, her muffled cries shaking against his hand, but he felt nothing—no pity, no remorse. He brought the knife to her hand, taking her pinkie between his fingers, and with one swift slice, he severed it. She gasped, body writhing, but he held her tightly, savoring the power he had over her.
"Goodnight," he murmured in a soft, mocking tone, leaning down and placing a cold kiss on her lips. "And happy birthday, mamá."
In a calculated frenzy, he raised the knife, stabbing her over and over. Forty-two times, hitting her arms, her chest, her legs—anywhere his hand could reach, each stab driven by years of pent-up rage and frustration. Rebecca's body stilled, her eyes wide, life slipping away with each blow. James's own breathing slowed, the room filled with nothing but the echoes of his attack.
Finally, as the adrenaline faded, he adjusted his expression, shifting from anger to carefully crafted innocence. He took the knife, positioning it against his shoulder and pressed just enough to leave a wound that would explain his bloodied state. Tossing the knife to the floor, he let the darkness take him, his vision fading as he collapsed onto the cold, tiled floor beside her.