I'm running too slowly, yet I can't go any faster. The sound of my pounding heart is ringing in my ears. Everything around me, every sight, every sound, seems unreal. Detached.
I'm trying not to think of
Luke
Luke
Luke
His name's screaming in my mind.
Why didn't I listen? Why didn't I try to understand.
Don't think about that now.
The hospital corridors seem to stretch out to unreasonable lengths before me, although I tell myself nothing has changed. Despite the fact that my legs feel as if they're going to give way beneath me, I keep on forcing them forwards. The feeling of lactic acid burning in my muscles makes me want to scream, but still I hop down the hospital steps two at a time, painfully twisting my ankle in the process. I've no time for pain, so I keep on going, swallowing the cry I'm longing to release. Because if I let it out, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop. I'll just break down in a massive heap. They'll have to lock me up.
Mad woman, mad woman. Let's lock up the mad woman.
Maybe I can understand what it feels like to become insane, because that's how bad things currently are.
I'm trying to only think of one thing at a time, that way I won't become too over-faced. Objective number one is making it to my car and then, only then, will I begin worrying about how to actually get home. How to actually drive.
I jam my keys into the ignition with such force that I miss and end up dropping them on the car floor. Frantically, I scramble about to find them, cursing loudly at my own stupidity.
I'm losing time, I'm losing time.
Then, I try again - this time more successfully. As soon as the engine comes to life, I slam my foot down and speedily reverse out of the space I'd so carefully entered just over half and hour ago.
I'm going too quickly. Luckily, I slam my breaks on just in time to avoid slamming into the car behind me, although I can't guarantee I didn't scrape a bit of their pristine, red paintwork onto my vehicle. Who cares, anyway? I've no time for such trivial matters.
I'm speeding through the car park. My next objective is to make it onto the motorway. Pulling out recklessly onto the main road, causing other cars to screech to a sudden halt (I receive a few swear-words and aggressive arm-wavings in the process), I race past everyone and everything in my sight, with an absolute guarantee to have broken the speed limit. Not that I give a damn. It's about time I stopped being such a boring and sensible driver anyway.
For all I know, things at home may be alright. I might get back and nothing will have happened anyway. I might as well try kid myself.
Still, that doesn't make me feel any less anxious. At the moment, I'm a complete and utter wreck, only able to keep myself together because I have a great reason for getting home. It doesn't help that I keep momentarily feeling as if I've lost the ability to drive, that I don't know what to do anymore, because I'm so overwrought.
Traffic lights. Curse them.
I literally don't have time for them, so I make an either brave or disastrous decision to pull out whilst they are still at red. Luckily, at this time of day, the traffic doesn't seem too busy.
I don't cause too much damage.
Thinking I've made my way across the junction unscathed, I become slightly oblivious to my surroundings, too busy feeling a sense of accomplishment at having killed more time. Which, of course, is a stupid mistake. At the very last minute, a black land-rover decides to pull out to my right. He doesn't see me coming, so we collide.
The damage isn't too bad, although I can't be sure, as I don't wait around to see. I'm shaking quite badly after it's happened, and he pips his horn angrily at me as I make my smooth and speedy exit. Poor bloke. He's probably a nice guy, with a brand new car that I just dented. He'll probably have to pay a fair sum of money for repairs. Not that I could care less.
I achieve objective number two shortly after my little accident. Hopefully, the ride will now be plain sailing, because objective number three is to actually make it home. It's pretty scary.
There's half of me (okay, perhaps two thirds) that is absolutely desperate to get home, who wishes they could be at there son's side to be there for him when he needs them most, to protect him from the thing she let into her home, but there's also another half of me that wants this journey to go on forever. Because I don't know what I'm going to find when I get home. I really don't. In a way, I feel as if I'm never going to be capable of setting foot in my house.
I've never felt so bloody terrified and helpless in all my life. And alone, too. This time I don't have Simon to help me. I'm in this by myself.
What kind of mother are you? What kind of human being are you, too?
A stupid one - that's what I am. Stupid and idiotic. So so idiotic and stupid.
What have I done to deserve this? What on earth did Luke do? I wouldn't wish this hell upon anybody.
I'd really thought my life was going to be perfect. Okay, not perfect, but good. Tolerable. Whereas, in reality, it had been working its way into a living nightmare. My personally-tailored living nightmare. Because nothing could be more terrifying than Luke being in danger; nothing could scare me more. And right now, it feels like he's on the opposite side of the world, completely out of my reach, as if he could have been-
NO! Don't you dare even think that. Don't even let it become a possibility, because it isn't.
I pull up into my driveway in what feels like an hour later, although I have no concept of time at the moment, as I haven't even dared to glance at my watch. I think if I did, I would completely lose the plot. The best thing to do is to keep calm, or at least try. Keep trying.
It's only as I look around me and see the familiar setting of home that I begin to wonder if I've done the right thing - if I should have called Simon. Or the police. I don't know if I can face this alone, but then it would have taken too long for anyone else to arrive, and I can't afford to wait around for another minute. I have to do this myself.
Almost in a dream-like state, I find myself running to the front door, shoving my keys in the lock and then crying and cursing when it won't open. I pound my fist against the wooden frame, releasing an unrestrained, animalistic screech.
Calm down, Laura. Wait a minute - it must have been unlocked. Try it again.
I fling the door open after a second attempt and, immediately, a wave of cold air greets me as I enter the house. The heating can't have been on - it's freezing. I shove my way into the first room of the house - the kitchen - only to find everything as it should be.
That's good, that's really good. See? There's nothing to worry about.
Still, my heart pounds at an impossibly fast pace.
Next, the living room. I try to enter it with the same force as the kitchen, but this time there's something holding me back. Something inside me tells me to keep out, but I must disobey it.
Again, everything is orderly, aside from a few toys strewn across the floor. Anna is fast asleep in an armchair.
She's got her eyes closed tightly shut, probably far away in some pleasant dream. It seems as if it would be cruel to wake her from her blissful slumber - I know it would really be kinder to just leave her - but I can't face the rest of this on my own. I need some help. And I know, also, that she would never forgive me for not waking her. She'd want to find her Grandson with me. Her "little deary". Her only grandchild before all this mess, and her only grandchild after it.
That's why I wake her up. I have no choice.
"Anna!" I cry, holding her firmly by the shoulders and shaking her body. It's only as I say this that I remember she won't have a clue about what's going on. She can't have known a thing, because she'd never have fallen asleep like this, knowingly leaving Luke in danger. "Anna!"
But she still sleeps on, which is strange since she's usually woken by the smallest of things.
Oh no.
I step back from her body, a hand clamped to my my mouth in horror. Her body is too still to be sleeping.
She isn't sleeping.
When I take a closer look at her again, I can see there is a dark stain of blood on the back of the chair. I don't know how I missed it.
She's dead.
Oh my. Oh my god.
Simon's dear, lovely mother.
But I'm not going to lose Luke as well, so I have to race upstairs and leave her there. Forever asleep in the corner chair.
"LUKE!" I can't hold his name in any longer. It rips its way out of my throat, as I battle my way up the staircase. "LUKE! PLEASE!"
I slam my way into his room, my eyes desperately searching for his, but there is nobody there.
I don't know what to do.
My baby, my baby. Oh, where is my baby?
I'm standing still, in complete shock, my legs trembling to the point where I don't think I can remain standing for much longer.
The room is beginning to spin slightly.
Mad woman, mad woman. Let's lock up the mad woman.
Then, suddenly, from the corner of the room, I hear a little whimper.
"Luke?"
And I find my son curled up in a ball, frightened beyond description, but completely and utterly unharmed.
I hold him in my arms, and we just sit and cry together, all the way through to the afternoon. I don't think we'll ever stop crying.
I won't ever let him go.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, and for the first time ever, I truly mean it.
