Eloa’s mind reeled. This couldn’t have happened. The entire room was turned completely upside down. He hadn’t even recognized the place at first, but as he focused on small recognizable items amidst the mess strewn throughout the house, he knew that he was in the right place. He strode quickly through the entry room, stepping awkwardly over broken furniture and books, down into the long hall. “Mother!” he called out, desperately hoping that she would answer, that he would find her, even badly beaten or unconscious, but alive, somehow alive. Even as he called for her, though, he knew what was in store.
“Mother!” he called again, pushing open the door to her room. Her mattress had been pushed completely off the frame of her bed, and it stood up against the far wall. The bed frame was broken in pieces and lay scattered around the room. All the clothes in her closet were in heaps on the floor. The drawers of her dresser had been flung across the room, the contents spilled out. Nothing stood upright or in its normal place. “Mother!” How could this have happened?
His search through the house revealed nothing but the thoroughness and rage of whatever intruders had done this. There was no sign of his mother. He called the police and reported the crime, and then sat, despondent, in a small corner of the floor where he had kicked books and picture frames out of the way to clear a small space for himself, waiting for the officers to arrive.
He knew he would never see his mother again. There was a small glimmer of hope — he had seen no blood. Perhaps she had only been kidnapped. Perhaps a ransom would be demanded, and he could get her back. But he knew better than to hope. The world was too violent. Society had broken down almost beyond repair. He knew that the cold, black, heavy stone that had been thrust into his heart would never leave him. He couldn’t bear the loss of his mother.
What had he said to her the last time he had seen her? She had called him while he had been preparing for the interview. He had been hurried, distracted. He had brushed her off. He couldn’t even remember the conversation. It had been so mundane, so ordinary. A relationship—a life—taken for granted. And now taken for good. How could he get those 30 seconds back again? Why couldn’t he have said it, just this once, as he had hung up? “I love you, Mom.” But his chance was gone, and he sat in his corner and sobbed.