Sleep, the ever elusive master of dreams. Even that refuses to chase away my fear. The dancing shadows act out my thoughts while the blanket of cold surrounding me begins to contract. My son should be here by now, returning drunk on violence and destruction. My train of dark thoughts slowly creaks and groans as it switches tracks. It is times like these that I wonder about the miserable life I lead. Rancid smells waft past my nose. They seem to be sent to cloud the answers to my questions. Slowly a lack of answers gives way to frustration and my worries fade to troubled dreams.
The figure moves slowly, steps dragging on the ground like a wounded beast. I can't make out the ghostly shape no matter how hard I try. It moves in a dream state with a slow jerky motion that is distorted by the water that draws my eye to it. Relief rushes in, washing me clean of worry. Maybe it's Grendel! Where is his triumphant swagger, though? I watch silently, almost holding my breath, as it slips into the water. The only thing I can distinguish is the clouds of red billowing from its side. It can't be Grendel. He wouldn't allow himself to be hurt, where was that boy? Slowly the form comes closer; closer to assuming Grendel's shape. It can't be him, it's not him. Half swimming, half sinking the shape glides towards the door. Grendel is fine, gluttony has delayed him. The approaching creature isn't him, it just isn't! Denial is the only hope I've ever had. One sound, one crash, allows me to hold it tight.
"One," the lonely word releases me from my thoughts. "One human," the thing at my door can barely string words together.
"One human what?" I know it hears the disgust in my voice.
"Destroyed by one human, mother" even with anger strengthening its voice I know this weakling can't be my precious boy.
"What did you call me?" I do not even try to hold back my revulsion as it drips out with every word. "If you were Grendel you would not allow a human to even give you a scratch."
"Mother," the word is pleading, and it makes me feel like I am unclean. "Mother, help me."
The creature's plea for help erases all doubt that this limp mass is Grendel. He would never ask for help; he would never need help. A filthy feeling does not allow me to push it aside though. I move it to a corner near a pile of its fellow refuse. Seeing it only make me think more about Grendel. My thoughts turn again to questions about my son. He would never let me see him like this. The only injury he would allow me to see is death.
The new thought strikes a harder blow than any I have received in my life. Grendel is dead! The rising anger kindles a fire somewhere inside of me. For all my life I have felt loss, but I never knew what it was; now I have lost something precious. As I leave I hear weak cries of pain, "mother, mother!" That disgusting feeling comes back. I cannot obey it, I tell myself. I must go out tonight. Tonight I go out for revenge. Tonight I revenge what was lost. Tonight I hold back no anger.