You were Rory's mother, a great one at that. Rory was and will always be your little boy. You went through 6 hours of labor and got to hear his first cry, witness his first step and pick up after his mess. He was a sweet boy from the moment he learned to talk, making you drawings and giving you flowers. You loved him.. dearly.

Where did you go wrong?

Now stood infront of you is Rory your 16 year old son, a bloodied skull-hockey mask on his face that hid most of his features. He stood at an alarming height of 6'3, staring down at you. His hands were coated with a dark crimson, his hands turned rough and sore from what you can only expect as 'murder'. He looked emotionless, just standing there lazily.

Yet, you got up onto your tippy-toes and reached up to cup his cheeks under the mask. Your gaze fixated on his gentle dark brown eyes, tears starting to well up in his eyes as he stifled his heavy breathing to soft and barely-hearable. There he is, there's your son.

"Mum?" He muttered softly with tiny emotion in his voice, his thick irish accent coming out clearly.