ANNIE'S POV
My son is a murderer. I remember the crazed glint in his eye as he drove out that stormy night, crying that he'd track down that little goddamn junior high school student who had given him a funny look earlier in the day. He drove out like the wind, the fury radiating from his supple and tender young body like God's wrath when God killed Abel for sodomizing Cain.
Simon drove out, and the winds of hell stirred in his wake. I could hear the tires screeching like a starving child, squealing like the London Bridge. A single tear ran down my face, dripping like a fish. It dripped, it rippled, it roared.
And in the end, it was futile.
For the little pothead who could apparently implicated Simon upon his dying breaths for ruthlessly slaughtering him. The massacre was quick and brutal. I could hear God applauding as Simon ran the infidel over in his pickup truck.
Yet now we must deal with the consequences of raising a ruthless little bastard.
Simon murdered a man. A boy, really.
And I feel so saddened that he got caught doing it.