The nurse left work at five o'clock. Walking hastily down the extended flight of stairs, she caught a glimpse of the twilight sky through the stained window of her patient's lonely, sullen apartment. The step began to creak; an ear numbing falsetto. Nervously, she continued her troubled climb down the stairs. Approaching the exit of the seemingly abandoned apartment, she exhaled, almost in relief, as she escaped and swiftly made off into the blue hued street.
"Good morning Ms. Adriana. So sorry it was another late night." Whispered a stranger, far too close behind her, raising the smallest of hairs on her neck.
"Oh!" the nurse exclaimed, immobilized by the greeting of her stranger. Briskly she met the eyes of her patient's son, Aiden Ambrose.
"Hello Mr. Ambr-"
"Please, Adriana. You've been takin' care of Ma for months now. Call me Aiden", Aiden asked her, in a deep, scratchy voice as he pushed his exhausted brown hair from his eyes.
Adriana stared at his tired grey eyes. Eyes that wanted to sleep after a hard night's work more than anything. "Aiden. Please excuse me, I must be going."
Silently, he dismissed her, with only a faint smile on his thin blue lips.
Turning back on her way, she gave a little smiled herself. Decaying like acid.
Up the dark, dirty, lonesome stairs he stoped at a seaweed-green door whose peeling paint revealed a copper brown.
"MA! MA, I'M HOME!" his voice filled his small apartment. The faint sound of television was all that broke the silence and Aiden sighed that he was home.
"MA!! MA!! I said I'm home! Jesus, she gets deafer and deafer every damn day..." Aiden muttered absently, setting his thin art portfolio down, along with his jacket and other mundane objects.
Sitting on his distrestedly frayed sofa, Aiden reclined back, turning up the volume on the television set before him. A shaven, brunette middle-aged man was reporting the news. ".... now to devasting news, another person was found brutally murdered in their Brooklyn apartment..."
"Damn. Brooklyn is going to hell these days." Aiden groaned, his stressed face sinking into his hands as he leaned closer. "...the 82-year old schizophrenic victim lived in his Bushwick apartment and was killed around 4 in the morning...." His jaw dropped to the ground. "Bushwick! God, I need that damn money to move outta here...MA!!?! What the hell!!?! Why is she so quiet, damn it! " He began to get up, slowly.
" Ma, it's not funny! No more hide and seek!!"
"....the police are saying this is a serial killer..." His haggard attention was back on the small television set. "...according to officials, this is the sixth person murdered in the past month..." He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders "Stupid police. I can't belie- OH GOD!"
Blood. Everywhere. The elderly victim's head rested on his torso, a grotesque picture. A puddle of scarlet covered the floors and walls.
Walking nausiausly towards the bathroom he turned on the faucet, splashing his face repeatedly with water to forget what he saw. Staring at the broken mirror, mother's dimentia, he caught something; a silhouette behind the bathtub curtains. "... the killer left a mesage at the last victim's home..."
"Ma, seriously?! You fell asleep in the bathtub! C'mon, get outta there before you get sick-"
Blood. Everywhere. She drowned in her blood, her eyes carved out of her bloody head and floating in the surface, an icy blue stare. And as if the news reporter could read the blood on the walls, he said:
"Just another burden out of your hands"