Chapter 1
HANDCUFFED DREAMS
“Somebody save us.” Mary, 45.
The police officers warned me to stay as far away from him as possible, calling him dangerous. All I did was crawl far, far away and stand in a corner as if I wasn’t with them. As I
stood there, I felt a lump form in my throat. I picked at my nails in a futile attempt to stave off the anxiety. With every passing second, my handbag felt heavier, absorbing the weight of my dread.
I looked at him, his face now hardened by experiences unknown to me. In that moment, I wished I could turn back time, back to when he was four years old. Back to when his smile was pure and unmarred by life’s cruelty. I remembered singing him lullabies, watching his eyes flutter close as he drifted into a peaceful slumber.
What has he become, when police officers now describe him as dangerous? What has he turned into, demanding more money each day than our entire family’s salaries combined, returning home disoriented, a chaotic force? What has he become, believing he can fly? He rambles incoherently, claiming he speaks to the dead. What happened to my little boy?
When I voiced these thoughts, the phlebotomist rolled his eyes and muttered, “Spoiled brat.” A nurse escorting a patient glanced at my son, seated in cuffs with his hands behind his back, surrounded by five police officers, as if he had transformed into Superman. She stepped back with her patient, murmuring, “My patient’s safety comes first.” I choked on my own saliva. Why did she act as though my boy could lunge at the old man and choke him at any moment? I wanted to defend him,
but when I opened my mouth, no words came. My throat felt dry, a silent wound etched deep—like a reminder. A simple reminder: I nearly died at my son’s hands.
He approached me with softened eyes and an innocent face, and for a moment, I thanked Buddha—he was back. I thought he would repent, tell Mommy he was deeply sorry, and promise never to use drugs again. But almost instantly, as if a darkness had surged within him, he moved swiftly and gripped my neck with his bare hands, choking me with relentless squeezes. I kicked and gasped for air, but he didn’t release me until I saw and heard God say, “Return to where you came from; this is not your place.” Warmth spread between my legs. When I awoke, his hands were no longer free in front of him. The handcuffs were tighter, securing his hands behind his back. He paced restlessly, insulting everyone in sight. He kicked benches and shouted for no apparent reason.
He shouted at the phlebotomist, demanding he “return his blood.” He threatened him, claiming he slept with chickens. Then he laughed and fell silent for a moment, as if reality began to surface. But when he spoke again, his frenzy had intensified, and
the five police officers struggled to restrain him. We were asked to leave and wait outside until his blood test results were ready. We awaited the verdict: an illegal drug overdose, the charge. But what about the disorientation? I had heard that such disorientation could lead to a permanent mental condition tied to drug abuse. Would he ever recover, become himself again?
I questioned myself relentlessly, a form of self-torment at this point. What is the pain like, seeing your child spiral into drug addiction, facing time for an illegal drug overdose? Does it rival the grief of a mother who has lost her cherished child? The agony of seeing my once-innocent boy become unrecognizable is suffocating. I recall the days when his laughter echoed through the house, filling every corner with joy. Now, those memories are overshadowed by the harsh reality of his addiction. The sleepless nights, constant worry, and overwhelming helplessness consume me. I can’t help but blame myself, second-guessing every choice, every moment I might have overlooked the warning signs.
Save me. Somebody save us.
For a moment, he fell silent again before turning to the police officer and pleading, “Please, loosen the cuffs. They’re killing me.”
He grimaced—like a smile warped by regret. His eyes glistened with tears before he quickly blinked them away. The police officer fumbled with the handcuffs for a moment before being knocked to the ground as my son bolted. The four other officers sprinted after him. He ran as if consumed by frenzy. I wept at the sight of it all.
Why is this happening to me? Why is God punishing me like this?
I would have been happier if he had ended my life earlier, for I am not prepared to face a future so uncertain, riddled with pain and confusion. It feels like living in a nightmare, and at this point in my life, I would swear that burning in flames would be preferable to watching my child in ruins. I pray for a miracle, for some way to bring my boy back to me, but deep down, I fear he may be lost forever.
