I haven’t moved from this spot since they brought me here. It’s been hours since the officer carried me inside and set me down on the steel metal chair of the station. He told me to wait here and that he would find me a change of clothes. I stare at the ground; I have nowhere else to go.

Her blood is smeared across the green stripes of my shirt and my khaki cargo shorts. She insisted I put on the new outfit she had bought me. She said she wanted me to look nice for when we went to the park after school. Ms. Sybille walked me home because mom would be on a shift at work. She usually makes me stay at her apartment until mom comes home, but I told her I wanted to grab another shirt before lunch since I wanted to stay clean for when mom came home.

I remember unlocking the door, walking in through the small apartment corridor, and going straight to my room for another shirt. I would’ve left after that. I wanted to grab a pack of gummies from the pantry. So I turned the corner, and she was on the floor. Face down. I thought she was sleeping. I thought she must be really tired because she didn’t even make it to the bed. I was angry. I thought she wouldn't want to go to the park, and I wasted my new outfit. I put the shirt I had grabbed on the counter and kneeled next to her. I wiggled her, willing her to get up and go to her bed. She wouldn’t move. “Mom!” I said, “Mom.” I was annoyed. I listened for the halfdormant grunt that usually follows my protest, but it never came, so I tried again.

Again.

Again.
Again.

I lifted her head, and it slipped out of my hands, leaving thick streaks of red across my palms and making a loud hollow thud as her head hit the tile.

“Mom?” I said, “Mom.”

My heartbeat was in my ears, and my vision blurred. I was crying. I picked up her head again with a stronger grip this time and scootched in to lay it on my lap. I slid under her with ease; something wet and thick was under her. I combed her head and felt my clothes damped under her.

“Mommy, wake up! You’re hurt. I can get you a band-aid but you have to get up first.” I hugged her tight like she’d done for me so many times before when I slipped and scraped my knee.

I don’t know how long I was gone, but Ms. Sybille came looking for me, “Honey, you okay? Lunch is rea-… OH GOD, OH GOD.” She screamed and sobbed. In a matter of seconds, she was on her knees pulling out her phone and calling for help. I swayed mom's head back and forth, soothing her.

“Honey, come here, we need to wait outside!” Ms. Sybille demanded, standing and holding out a shaking wrinkled hand.

My grip around mom tightens. “NO! I JUST NEED TO GET HER A BANDAGE. PLEASE PASS ME THE BANDAGES!” I’m not leaving mom, she’s still asleep, and I can’t leave her. Ms. Sybille grabs my forearm, carefully stepping around the pool of blood that surrounds mom and me.

“Sweetheart,” she said, “mommy isn’t there anymore. We must wait outside for the police!” She pulled at my arm, and I fought her with everything I had in me, “SHE NEEDS BANDAGES! I CAN HELP HER JUST GET ME THE BANDAGES!”

She wrapped her arms around my torso and lifted me up. I began kicking and thrashing, wiggling out of her grip but she held me tight. I went blind, I couldn’t see, everything was blurry, and my cheeks were pouring and pouring and pouring.

The sirens sing down the street until I can hear them outside our apartment building. “I JUST NEED THE BANDAGES, PLEASE JUST GET ME THE BANDAGES!” I can’t stop her. She’s taking me away. “Please, baby, just calm down!” She hugs me tighter, to console me or restrain me, I don’t know. “MOM! MOM, PLEASE WAKE UP! MOM PLEASE! PLEASE!”

I don’t really remember what happened after that, but I’ve been sitting here since. In silence, watching as officers walk by. A few offer me candy and ask for my name, but I just stare at my shoes and dig my nails deeper into the metal chair. Eventually, the lady in the uniform just sets the lollypop on my lap and walks to a nearby desk. I hear her asking the other man in uniform, “Sanders, who’s the kid?” He looks over at me, “6-year-old found his 28-year-old mother dead on the kitchen floor. No father in the picture and no relatives. CPS is on its way. They’re linking it to the chain of homicides in the area, no leads, and no trace.” My grip tightens, and I take a deep breath. “Emma,” I breathe quietly. No one hears me. I close my eyes and continue listening, “Shit, Sanders. What’s his name?” I feel them stare through closed eyes, “Theodore Anderson.”

Mom always called me Teddy.