Fiction

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Less than a mile away John Mason was sound asleep. Oblivious that his son Daniel was not in his bed. In fact, he had never even once suspected that his son would sneak out in the middle of the night, and do who-knows-what. Yes, he was aware that Daniel was going through a tough time, but that he imputed to the fact that Daniel was sixteen, a teenager, peer pressure and the fact that his mother had died only six months ago. Suicide. She took a knife and tuck it right through the heart. There was never even the slightest hint of any dementia, paranoia or even depression. It's as if she got up one morning, decided to off herself, and chose a very morose way to do it as well. Daniel was the one who found her.
It was a Friday, and Daniel rushed home after school to change his clothes, grab some lunch and head out to a friend's house. But it never happened like that. When he got home he expected to see his mom in the kitchen finishing up lunch, or setting the table. What he found instead was an empty house. He worked his way through nearly every room in the house, before he decided to go look down in the cellar. It wasn’t completely uncommon for his mom to be down there, as she had a lot of old stuff she kept down there. Stuff from a previous marriage (before she had met his dad), boxes with odds and ends in them and stuff from another life - a secret life, a life neither John Mason nor Daniel knew much about.
When Daniel flipped on the light switch of the cellar, he immediately saw Jacky Mason's lifeless body lying on the floor. A pool of blood had formed around her torso and was busy drying. Daniel stood there for what seemed to be ages, before he walked back up the stairs, closed the door and went up to his room where he lay on his bed until his father had come home from work.
The police had said it was suicide, but Daniel didn’t believe it. They didn’t know his mom; nobody did, not the way he had known her.

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