Hello dear readers,
I woke up thinking of Bobby this morning, hence this little tale. :-)

The Man behind the Mask

Bobby sat alone on Ma's bed, lost in his thoughts. A steady stream of night light poured in from the white lace window curtains, setting the room aglow with soft bluish light. He looked around solemnly. In some ways he could still feel her presence all around him in the quiet room. He hadn't moved too many things around since he'd started sleeping here a few days ago. There were little bits of her everywhere, little reminders of her life – like the laundry basket he'd found sitting on her bed, or the rainbow scarf she'd began knitting that now lay unfinished on the chair beside the bed, or the fuzzy pink bedroom slippers by the door. Little things brought back memories of her and he longed to reach out and touch her, to catch a glimpse of her again.

A part of him had gone cold and numb when he'd seen the footage on that surveillance tape. The image played over and over in his head – the gun aimed at her, the slow steps she took backwards, and the final two shots that sent her crashing to the ground, never to rise again. He clenched his teeth and tried to stifle the tears. He didn't care that he was alone behind a closed door now; crying would dull the pain, plus it made him feel weak and pathetic. He needed to keep his wits sharp; he needed to feel the raw anguish and hot anger that flowed in his veins. He knew that he needed these emotions, even more than guns to fight the war he was about to unleash. There would be plenty of time to grieve after Ma's death was avenged. He'd felt nothing when he'd unloaded a bullet into that thug's chest. He was prepared to stop at nothing, he was ready to go to jail if necessary, because there was no way he was letting this go. He thought about what his Ma would say about all this. Maybe Jerry was right, maybe she would've been the first to forgive her killers. In fact he knew for sure that she had forgiven them but he'd never lived his life as a saint and he was not about to start now, even if he wanted to.

He heaved a shaky sigh and lay down on the bed. He grabbed her pillow and held it close. He found it hard to admit it to himself, but he was lonely. He never told anyone this, but oftentimes he would dream about getting married and having a few kids. He would do right by them - he wouldn't fail them like his parents had failed him, whoever they were. He would give them those things he'd prayed for everyday of his life before Ma came along: love, a proper childhood and a life. He thought about Jeremiah and his little girls; he wanted a life like that someday too. Angel had Sofi; and despite all the jokes he made about them, he knew that they'd loved each other for years. The truth was that he wanted someone to curl up with at night, someone to keep him grounded when he got too hot-headed, someone to simply love him. He'd hoped that one day Ma would hold his children in her arms, and love them as much as he knew she loved him. That would no longer be possible.

He rolled onto his side and held the pillow tightly against his chest. The alarm clock on the bedside table read 2.25am. He needed to get some sleep. He hoped to see her in a dream tonight, even for a fleeting moment, if only for a little reassurance that she was there and looking out for them. He mumbled a little prayer and fell into a restless slumber.

She watched him sleep, but she would not visit his dreams that night.

(650 words)