Gingerly I opened the door. On the other side was my mother. She lay on her side and looked would have almost looked like she was sleeping, if it were not for the gradually larger pool of blood forming around her. Beside her was a broken glass. It was almost as if she had just dropped dead out of the blue. I ran to her, my eyes filled with tears.

'Mum, are you ok?'

'Can you hear me Mum?'

'Mum!'

The silence consumed me and I was beside her, my tears falling onto her clothes.  I was crying hysterically now.  I hugged her, begging her to wake up.

Then I saw the boot tracks and my heart lurched. She had been murdered.   I collapsed to the floor and cried for a long time.

ONE DAY LATER

I lay on my bed, wide awake. It was three in the morning but I couldn't sleep. I still couldn't get that image out of my mind. My mother, lifeless, the sirens, blue and red lights, silence. The police are trying to catch the guy, I said to myself. Soon we'll know, I said, not really believing it.

I looked over at my desk, on it sits, piles of books, notepads and paper, and a photograph of me and mom and dad. We're at the beach, smiling. Younger me has half-melted ice cream dribbling down his chin, without a care in the world. I can't imagine being free anymore. Especially not now. I turn over and try to get to sleep.

I wake up a mess. There are bags under my eyes and my hair's quite frankly a mess, even by my standards. I haul myself up out of bed and get into the shower. The cool water is soothing over my sore, tired skin. There's a large bruise on my knee, from a bike crash.

I really shouldn't do mountain biking as often. I should at least get a proper bike. My one is barely holding together, it might not be for much longer. Maybe for my birthday, maybe. Ten minutes later I'm finished. My hair still looks a mess. It always does, to be honest. I can't be bothered fixing it, who's gonna see me?

As I go down for breakfast, dad and I sit in silence, we're still in shock I think. Then I tell him 'Dad can I go to school?'. He looks up passively and nods slowly. The school seems normal. I'll not think of mum as much if I go.

As I walk through the front gates I'm greeted by the ugly, spot-covered face of Jackson. Jackson is the school bully. Last year he pushed a guy against a wall and punched him like ten times. He moved school after that.

'GIVE ME YOUR MONEY' he demands. I take out my £10 note and reluctantly give it to him, well there goes my dinner money. Jackson gives me a shove and then walks off. Jerk. Guess it can't get any worse then.

When I get in, Tom approaches me. The cheap LED lights reflect off his, thick-rimmed glasses and his short blonde hair is sculpted into a quiff. 'Whattup bro?'. 'Nothing much', I say. I'm not ready to tell him yet.  I ask him for the maths homework and spend the next fifteen minutes writing out x's, y's and any other letter teachers use to ruin student's lives.  I get the geography homework while I'm at it. 

We start walking to class.  Suddenly Tom stops and looks at me, his blue eyes judging me.  'I know you, Nick, what's going on' he says as his light brown eyes study me.
'Nothing', I say, pleasing he would believe me. He doesn't. He keeps staring at ne, clearly waiting for an answer. Tom wouldn't say anything, would he?

'Mum died'. Decision made then.  

He looks down, 'sorry man, that's tough, if you need me I'm here yeah'.

'I know' I say, and I mean it.

He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks at me. He doesn't say anything more, he doesn't need to. He smiles at me, trying to make me feel better.

'Are you going to writing class after school today?'., he asks. 

'Yeah sure', I say.

He nods at me and smiles. He does this every time I say yes. My first time was 6 months ago and now I am obsessed, just like him. I went from not reading a single book to writing books. Typical.

Two minutes later I'm in English. Mrs. McCarthy stands up at the front preaching the importance of metaphors and similes. Maybe I should have stayed at home after all. I look over at Tom, he's making a paper airplane out of a scrap of paper, oblivious to the boredom I am in. Five minutes later I'm asleep.

I'm jolted awake by the sound of the bell. I have a flashback of the wailing sirens and the blue lights that shine brightly in the darkness that invaded my house. A man walks, well barges through the door, followed by a group with a stretcher. I brush the memory from my mind.

The rest of the day is pretty boring. Except for History.   In history I sit beside Jemma. I picture her mid-length, curly, blonde hair and her knowing dark brown eyes, full of sympathy and understanding.

We talk about music, we are both massive Coldplay fans. It feels so natural to talk to her, it's weird, usually, I'm so quiet. When I walk in, she knows something is wrong. She frowns slightly and asks me what's wrong. I tell her. She looks over at me, clearly sympathetic.

'Do you know something Nick?' she says in a whisper, 'I know how you feel'.

'You don't mean?', I say, not having the nerve, nor the desire to finish my question.

'Yes', she says, suddenly extremely interested in the lines of her table, her finger tracing over them.

'It was my dad', she goes on, she wants to say more, but she chokes up, tearful.

'I'm sorry', I say, unsure and wary of what to say, if anything.

I look over at her, shocked by the revelation.  She's clearly upset but is trying to hide it. I put a hand on her shoulder and she smiles.  She looks down at the desk and we work in silence for a while.