Martha was pissed off. Her fourteen year old son had stolen from her. He had gone into her room and stolen from her. She paced the living room floor awaiting his return. It was late, twelve past midnight. Martha knew not to expect him until after one or two. He always stayed out late. As each minute passed by she became more and more angry.
"How dare he." She hissed through clinched teeth. "How dare he steal from me."
Martha had been at work and had not seen her son all day. She had arrived home from work at about ten and went straight to her bedroom, there she discovered the crime. He had taken it from her top dresser drawer where she had always kept it.
This was not the first time he had stolen from her. Increasingly he had become harder and harder to control. Martha did not know where he had gotten his bad ways from. She was a good mother in her eyes. She worked hard in the absence of his father to give him the life she always thought he deserved.
But recently he had began to hang out with what she called "Trouble." He began dressing differently. Staying out late. His grades began to drop also. But stealing from her. She could not stand him stealing from her. The last time he had stolen from her she had beat him with a belt. About two weeks ago she had discovered he had taken twenty dollars from her purse. She could not tolerate being stolen from.
She finally ended her pacing and sat down on the coach. It was now nearly one in the morning. Her son would be coming in the front door of there apartment anytime now. She began to think of where she went wrong. How had her son become what he was. His father had left when he was two. Since then she had raised him by herself. She always held a job refusing to go on welfare. Always put food on the table. Always dressed him in good cloths, not rags like she had seen some of the other kids in the neighborhood wear.
She thought back to the time when her son was younger. Innocent. Mommas little helper she would call him. Since she always worked her son often stayed home alone. Even when he was a young child he would be left by himself and he would never get into trouble. He was very responsible, very courteous, very mature and now, he was a thief.
"Its his friends" she thought. "I work so damn hard to raise him right and his trouble making friends corrupt him into a thief. Well not anymore," she proclaimed." From now on he aint leaven this house."
One thirty came and passed. Martha was as angry as ever. She sat on the couch, her hands clinched together. Every time she pictured her son going into her room and taking her belongings, knowing how much she needed it, she became angrier and angrier.
She refused to except blame for her sons actions. She had done the best she could under the circumstances. Life had dealt a crappy hand and in her mind she had at least played it to a draw. She refused to fold and played every card the dealer through at her. It was his damn friends. Those gang-bangging hoodlum friends of his. If she could get him away from them she could save her son.
Two o'clock. She had surpassed anger. She began to pace the living room floor again. The thought of her own son stealing from her raced through her tortured mind. She began to think maybe he wouldn't come home. That he would stay at a friends house out of fear of his mothers reprisal for his deed. "Bullshit" she thought. Then she remembered a note book he kept in his room that had the numbers of some friends of his in it. She would call every damn friend he had if she had to but she would find him. He would return what he stole or she swore to god she would kill him.
She went to his room, opened the door and switched on the light. She walked quickly to his dresser and opened his top drawer before she realized that he was lying on the bed. He must of been home all along. In her rage, after discovering the theft, she had forgotten to check his room.
She had fire in her eyes. The little thief was asleep in his room the entire time. but then she realized he wasn't asleep. She slowly approached the bed and laying next to him was what he had stolen .The hypodermic needle was still stuck in his arm. The bag of heroin laid on the bed along with a spoon and a lighter. Martha touched him. He was stiff. He was dead.
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