She sighed heavily and turned from the window, letting the curtain drop and guillotine the silvery trace as the hand that had held the wispy fabric now moved to curtail the moisture leakage. It had come to this. She was certain, in her own odd way, that she wouldn't be missed. All the torture she had been put through, all the emotional blackmail, all the guilt-ridden conversations... all the denial.
No, she wouldn't be missed. Not the way that he would be.
He was the golden child. The perfect son. As if the world-at-large even had the desire to see him for what he truly was. No, anyone that knew him was absolutely certain from the time he was born... he was the best and the most wonderful. Never making a mistake. Not in public -- and only in private when she had been the only witness.
Such a loaded word, that one. Complex, and simple in its entirety. Witness. Merriam-Webster defines witnes in many ways:
Transitive Verb definitions:
Intransitive Verb definitions:
The origin of the word comes from Middle English - witnesse - which in turn comes from Old English - witnes - and the first known use as a noun was prior to the 12th Century C.E. (for those of you that don't do historic dates well, that means before the year 1100), and the first known use as a verb was during the 14th Century C.E. (the 1300s). There are a myriad of words related to witness, both synonyms and antonyms... attest, attestation, authenticate, avouch, certify, confirmation, corroboration, disproof, documentation, evidence, proof, substantiation, testament, testify (to), testimonial, testimony, validation, vouch (for), voucher...
Such babble filled her mind, and she knew it was simply some part of her mockery of a mind. A vestige of perhaps something good in her that wanted to survive, telling her not to do what she must.
As a sort of tribute to the son that never really was, before she carried out her goal -- no, her duty -- she dressed him slowly and carefully in the three piece suit. The gift of an Armani man's suit was never what he wanted. But he had mustered acceptance for it with all the enthusiasm that was expected. No, there was nobody that ever saw past his façade to the truth. Lies that even convinced himself for a short time.
The absurdity of what she was doing struck her for a moment as she slid the precise Windsor knot to his throat one last time. She even let slip a giggle. Or maybe a chuckle. Only a woman truly knows how to tie a tie on someone. She stifled the aberrant behaviour lest she become hysterical.
She looked at the bedside clock. The one that was destined to take up residence in the evidence locker at the local police station, at least until a coroner made a report -- probably longer. Barely ten minutes had passed since she wept in the moonlight.
Another moment of inappropriate humour... men get dressed so much more quickly than women...
It would take the police about seven minutes to respond after she made the call. She would be here, waiting for them. So would he. Would they ever understand what drove her to this? Not likely. Even with all of their "sensitivity training" and the role-plays that today's police undergo... not likely at all.
She reached out and lifted the telephone -- an old style, rotary, what they used to call a Princess style. He had thought it something that would be overlooked and not attributed to deviant proclivities. And of course, he was wrong.
Her hand, the same left hand that held the curtain, delicately dialed the three digits.
An inkling of a moment passed before a soothing and businesslike woman's voice answered, "Nine-one-one emergency. What is the nature of your emergency?"
She sucked in a breath through her teeth.
"I - I want, no, I need to report a death."
The operator's tone didn't change, but she could imagine the saddened look on the faceless woman's features as she asked, "Please stay on the line, ma'am, until I can transfer you to the ambulance --"
"No, you don't understand. I need the police. I've just murdered my son."