It was well after midnight when Francine finally packed away her cleaning products and headed up to bed. Stan was already there, lying on his side facing away from her. She didn't know if he was awake; he did not move as she climbed into bed beside him. Part of her wanted to reach over and touch him, longing for some comfort, but she couldn't bear to have him jerk his shoulder away yet again, so Francine merely settled back against her pillows.

Though she was exhausted – every bone in her body ached – she could not sleep. All she could think about was Steve, and how afraid he must have been that terrible night. She could think of nothing else, no matter how hard she tried. It was like there were gigantic screens inside her head, so even if she tried to close her eyes, she could still see Steve walking inside that house. The screens showed her other things, too; like what actually happened. (Well, what she believed happened; they still didn't know all of the details, and they likely never would.) It wasn't like she wanted to think of this stuff, but she just couldn't help herself.

The thoughts spun around her head like a swarm of angry bees, until she managed to drop off to sleep a few hours later. Even in sleep, she wasn't safe, as she dreamt about it every night. Well, 'dream' was the wrong word; they were the most awful, realistic nightmares. Nightmares in which all she could do was stand and watch helplessly.

"Mommy, help me!"

Francine awoke with a jerk, gasping. She looked around for Steve, even though she knew he wasn't there. Hearing him was probably the worst thing, because it sounded as though he was right next to her, and she wasn't able to help him.

Every waking moment, it plagued her thoughts. That was why she cleaned; to drown the screaming out. Because then she couldn't hear anything, and if she couldn't hear anything, then she couldn't torture herself. Well, she couldn't torture herself by hearing Steve; no matter how much she cleaned, she couldn't stop the bad thoughts, and the what-ifs.

Did he call for her? Francine supposed he did; he probably called for his dad and sister, as well. It hurt her heart to think of it, of her poor baby crying out for help that would never come.

Francine didn't drop off again until the early hours of the morning.

She woke up a bit later than she normally would have, but it was no big deal; it wasn't as though she had a child to wake for school or anything any more. Her only school-age child was dead, so she really had no reason to be up early now.

Trudging into the kitchen, Francine got to work cleaning. Who cared about making breakfast? Not her, that was for sure. Cooking didn't seem to distract her the way cleaning and drinking did. She passed Roger at the kitchen table as she grabbed her supplies. He had a wine-tasting book open on the table in front of him, along with several glasses of various wines. It was his way of drowning his sorrows without actually having to admit that he missed Steve.

Running on coffee and heartache, she began tidying the pristine kitchen until it sparkled, before moving onto tackle the equally clean living-room.

"Mama, make him stop!"

Her hand slipped on the window, making it squeak harshly. She heard it plain as day, as though Steve was in the room. It confused her; she knew she wasn't imagining hearing him, and she knew she wasn't really hearing it, either. Francine could not make sense of it, and she moved quicker... anything to drown the sounds out.

Pulling a bottle of wine down from her stash on the bookcase, Francine uncorked it and took a swig. As she continued to drink, Steve's screaming began to fade away, and Francine sighed.

She wished with all her might that she had heard him that night. Countless times, she had envisioned her Mommy Sense hearing her son's voice in the distance, and then racing towards it, kicking down the door, and then beating that piece of scum to death with her bare hands. No one laid a hand on her babies.

But she didn't hear him that night, and now her perfect little man was dead.

A mother was supposed to know when her kids were in trouble, so why didn't she?

As she leaned over to dust the coffee table that was so clean she could see her reflection, Francine saw Hayley on the stairs watching her.

"What?" she asked, straightening up. Hayley opened her mouth, and then closed it, her gaze shifting from side to side.

".. Nothing," she said eventually, before heading back upstairs. Francine watched her leave, staring at the spot where her daughter had been, long after she had gone.

Her gaze drifted over to the wall, to the empty space between the photo of Stan and herself, and a rare one of Stan and a young Hayley. She couldn't quite remember when they had taken all the pictures of Steve down, or even who had been the one to do so, but she didn't really mind. It hurt to even think about Steve, let alone look at him. At least this way, her chances of bursting into tears as she walked through the house had halved.

Francine finished dusting the coffee table, and moved to straighten the cushions on the sofa. In the middle of doing so, she jumped as though she had received an electric shock, as she imagined those terrible screens showing her Steve being pinned down, begging for help. No matter where she looked, she couldn't escape it. Even closing her eyes didn't help, as the screens were burned inside her eyelids.

Lip trembling, she shook her head in horror as she saw Steve lying on the ground, crying, trying to get away, screaming. She brought a shaking hand to her mouth, willing the image to go away, but it didn't.

Her grip tightened on the duster, and she slumped to the ground.

She should have insisted Steve stayed and ate dinner with them. She should have made him sit down and oblige his father. Stan saw so little of his family, and dinner time was pretty much the only time they were all together. If Steve had eaten with them that night, he would have still made it to Snot's on time. He would still be alive.

If she had done her job as a parent, her son wouldn't have been killed.

Francine could remember their family therapist spouting something about not blaming herself, but she couldn't help it. Yes, okay, she knew it was the fault of the man who killed him, but if she hadn't let him go out, then it wouldn't have happened.

That was probably why Stan never spoke to her any more; he blamed her. That must be the reason. She allowed her son to leave the house when Stan wanted them to be all together, Steve was killed for it, and Stan blamed her for it.

Her eyes filled with tears, and Francine buried her head in her knees, sobbing loudly.

"I'm sorry!" she cried. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" She hoped that both her husband and her son heard her pleas. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry!"

Throwing her head back, she let out anguished scream as her form shook, and more tears spilled down her face. She heard footsteps, but couldn't make out who it was.

"Mom?" It was Hayley. Of course it was Hayley; it was like Stan didn't even know she existed now. "Mom." Hayley sat down next to her, embracing her tightly, which Francine returned desperately.

"I just miss him so much, Hayley!" Francine gasped, clutching her daughter tightly, as though she was an anchor in a stormy sea.

"I know; I miss him, too," Hayley admitted, her own tears soon mingling with her mother's.

They had both cried more than their fair share of tears over the past four months, but this time was different.

The house was so quiet now, and it wasn't because Steve was no longer there to randomly belt out made-up songs, or that Roger no longer did his personas, or the fact that none of them could bear to be in the same room as one another. No, even with all the crying that went on, the house was still so quiet, and it was because a part of them all had died.

"I failed him!" Francine sobbed. "I should have been there when he needed me and I wasn't! I was eating dinner while my son was being murdered! I should never have let him go out, and I should have known something was wrong!"

Hayley didn't know what to say, because she felt the same way. Logically, it was very easy to say it wasn't their fault; they couldn't have known what was going to happen, and there was nothing that indicated it wasn't going to be just a normal day. But still, it hurt to know that while they were enjoying a delicious dinner, Steve was dying. "Do you think he hates me?" Francine sniffled.

"No," said Hayley sincerely. "He doesn't hate you. Steve could never hate you."

"Really?" Francine looked at her, like a little child needing assurance, and Hayley nodded.

"Really. He loved you, and he still does."

Hayley had never seen seen her mother like this before, and it broke her heart. She didn't know what to do. She'd spent the past several months wishing she could comfort her mum, and now that she was, she felt like it wasn't enough. Hayley didn't feel like she could do anything to make Francine feel better, and a small, some might say selfish, part of her wanted her parents to comfort her, because no matter how old she got, she was still their child, and she needed her parents right now.

But Stan wasn't mentally there, and Roger was drunk as hell, so it was up to her. "You were Steve's favourite person," she said honestly.

Hayley saw something out of the corner, and noticed Roger peeking at them from the kitchen door frame. When he realised he was being watched, he quickly disappeared.

"He's not mad at me?" Francine asked, and Hayley held her tighter.

"No, he's not. He could never be mad at you. You're his mom."

Francine took a deep, shuddering breath, and then took another one. Eventually, her breathing calmed, and she sat up a little straighter.

"I can't stop thinking about the moment he knew he was in trouble. I just wished I could have saved him," she sniffled. "I just know he was calling for help, and wondering where we were, and why we didn't come."

Hayley was about to say something; what, she had no idea, because she knew nothing she could say would make Francine feel better, when Roger appeared in the doorway once again, a bottle of wine in his hand.

"I am trying to finish my wine tasting experience here. Stupid bitch," he muttered, glaring daggers at Francine.

"What?" Hayley stared at him, unsure if Francine had heard. Hayley hoped she hadn't. Roger took a big gulp of wine, his eyes becoming more unfocused as he drank.

"I said you're a stupid bitch," he slurred, "and if you weren't so far away, I'd come over there and punch you."

"Roger!" Hayley looked affronted, but Roger only brought the bottle back up to his lips and waddled away. She turned back to Francine. "He doesn't mean it," she told her, but Francine's eyes were wide, and she was staring straight ahead as though she was not seeing the wall in front of her. "Mom?" Hayley gently placed her hand on Francine's shoulder, but her mother didn't respond. Instead, Francine slowly got to her feet.

"Roger's right," she said, picking up the duster that had fallen from her slack grip. "I am a stupid bitch." She began walking towards the kitchen, but stopped, and turned back around, the sound of her son screaming ringing in her ears. "I should really finish cleaning the living-room." Her voice was slightly dazed.

Hayley stood up as well, watching silently as Francine continued to dust the bookcases.

"Mom?" Her voice was soft, and Francine did not hear her. Sighing, she turned around and began walking back upstairs.

"Hayley?"

At the sound of her name, Hayley turned around, and saw Francine staring at her. Neither of them spoke, but Hayley looked into her mother's eyes, and saw what she couldn't say out loud. 'Thank you.'

Though her mouth twitched, Hayley could not smile. Instead, she nodded, and headed back to her room, feeling like her heart was just the tiniest bit lighter than it had been for ages.

~ X ~

I know the ending might seem a bit cheesy, but I think being able to talk her mother, even a little bit, will make Hayley feel better.
What did you think? I'd love to know!