Creative Writing - Ocean

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As I burst into an uncontrollable cry, screeching and yelling, I kneel down, slide my left hand under his warm bloodied back and my right under his thick haired head I gently hoist him up so I can hold him, hold my youngest son in my arms, I can feel the warm and innocent blood pouring out of his stomach onto my legs, dripping off them onto the ground of his bedroom floor, the same bedroom floor he has had his entire life, he spent the first night of his short life in this room and also his last. As I look up and see the curtain’s blowing in the warm summer breeze, I wonder, why is the window open? Why has my son’s life been taken from me so soon? He was the only thing I loved; everything else had gone; now my own flesh and blood had been taken from me, stolen, his life taken away from me, why? As I come to realisation I gently stroke my index finger over his still warm right eyelid, then his left, putting him to what I hope was a quick and painless death. I lay him down on the ground, in a pool of blood. As I push off my knees to get up off the blood soaked floor I see foot prints leading towards the window, footprints of blood, as soon as I see these I know early evidence may be crucial and run out of the door and straight to the kitchen and pick up the phone, it’s a struggle to do such a simple task at the time being as my hands still shaking more than a Parkinson’s patience. I go to dot in the number ‘0, 0, 0,’ and after three unsuccessful attempts of also pushing other buttons I finally get the right numbers, I put the blood soaked phone up to my ear and hear another voice on the other side, it’s the soft voice of a young female, she asks me whether I’d like the Police, Ambulance or Fire brigade, I stutter for a second as I realize I’m still in shock, I can’t talk, I finally mumble out, “p, p, p police’. She redirects me through to the local police department where they answer and politely ask, “Gillianville police department, please state your location and...
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