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Fay is not forgotten.  The consensus seems to be that I should finish it myself…hmmm.  I suppose I should get writing then.  It was a long time ago, but I’d like to see an end, and I’d hate to leave people hanging.  I’ll write it and everyone should feel free to jump in and join me at any time.  I may not recommence until my laptop is back from repairs, perhaps in another week or so.  If I change my mind, forgive me.  You may know how it is once a piece has been put down long, long ago and you’ve moved on ;)

In the meanwhile, here is a piece that I started a couple years ago.  My idea for this story was about a woman whose son is abducted.  Regardless of the outcome of this crime, the woman becomes a vigilante serial killer and her victims are registered sex offenders.  I began it in response to a conversation I had with a friend of mine who happens to be a mother.  She described the situation as her worst fear, and stated she would take it upon herself to get the re-offenders off the streets.  I personally found it a difficult story to write, too upsetting, to be honest.  So I couldn’t bring myself to go any further.  Finish the piece if you like, link me up to it.  Otherwise it will likely remain here…endless…

As quiet as the sound was, it penetrated her sleep.  She’s had this fear before on countless occasions, when every sound that was the least bit peculiar crept into her bedroom like an unforgivable evil awaiting for the right moment to destroy her.  This time, she knew it was no mistake.  This was happening now.  One fear she had pertained to her distrust of her own instincts–whether her imaginings would be so illusive as to cloud her ability to discern the reality if it would occur–or if, so conditioned, she would dismiss her sense of there existing a true disturbance, that she would ignore it only for the worse that she could imagine to actually happen.  For this reason, each peculiar sound prompted her to get out of bed at any time in the night and peer into her son’s bedroom to check if he was safe or not.  She slept better that way, and not with the fear that she denied the possibility that an intruder crept through the window of his bedroom while he slept peacefully and tore him from his pooh blanket and teddy bear, only to sexually, emotionally torture him and bury him alive somewhere that he would never be found.  And she would be left with the memory of his presence and the rage against the contemptible scum who crushed her boy’s innocent spirit, as if it was his object to defile at will.  This was her worst fear, but this time, she knew what the sound was.  Her instincts were not failing her now, and she knew her son was in danger.

The course of events that followed her awakening happened within only an approximation of fifteen minutes, however for Jane, there was no explanation of the way time seemed to stop, slow down, and speed up simultaneously, clouding her recollection and leaving her with only the blood rushing through her veins in a violent attempt to keep her conscious, and the flat emotions of the trauma.  Yet again, at the same time, there was an intensity–the hysterical energy within her body that shook her uncontrollably when it was all over.

She heard the sound, unmistakable, but almost silent–the sound of her son’s window being slid open.  Jane sat upright and moved quietly.