This isn’t really a story. It’s more of a character sketch/concept piece.
When he hid in his room, bruised and battered, I cried for him.
When he came home from school smiling, blood on his clothes, I wondered what happened.
When the school scheduled a conference to discuss his behavior, I ignored their concerns.
When he started going out, I thought he’d made friends, and I rejoiced that he’d finally blossomed.
When our neighbor couldn’t find her dog and my son walked away whistling, I was confused.
When the news broadcast the fifth in a series of violent murders, I wondered and worried.
And when my son came into my room, eyes gleaming, butcher knife clutched in his hand, I blamed myself.
Inspired by the WordPress Daily Prompt: Blossom