The Escalator

Not many people would suspect that a young mother could, or would, accidentally commit a murder. Even fewer people would suspect a four-year-old boy of the same thing. And no one would suspect that either one would have done it on purpose.

The mall was crowded that day, a Friday, as shoppers weaved in and out of stores, traffic piling up in front of the pretzel store, babies crying as their parents pushed them quickly in their strollers. A mother and her young son walked hand in hand through the chaos, her arm leading him as his head turned quickly, glancing from storefront to storefront, person to person.

The woman’s arm was gently tugged as she walked past a toy shop, and she looked down to see her son pointing at the door. Although the crowds were dense, this particular store was ten times worse, packed with kids running from one wall to the other, a constant buzz of raised voices as people tried to talk louder than the person next to them, hoping to be heard.

Her face cringed as she looked around for an alternative, not wanting to disappoint her son but not wanting to enter that hell of a store, either. She noticed a smaller, less popular toy store upstairs, which looked to not even have a quarter of the customers the first one did.

Pointing upstairs, she spoke to her son.

“Let’s go to that one up there, okay?”

He nodded, and they started walking again. What a good boy, she thought as they slowly made their way up the escalator and to the second floor. She didn’t even have to explain to him why they weren’t going to the place he wanted, and he simply agreed to the alternative without a second thought. Good kid.

As the pair walked through the open doors of the shop, the mother began to realize why no one was shopping there. Stuffed toys were upwards of fifty dollars, small animal figures were twenty. The cheapest thing in the entire store was probably the five dollar gum on the display by the register. She would have braved the downstairs toy store if she knew how expensive this one would be. But, before she could retrace her steps, her son was gone from her hand, grabbing and playing with all the toys his eyes could see.

Sighing, she let him play, knowing it would at least give him some satisfaction to enjoy the toys here even if he didn’t get to bring them home. However, he found something he liked, bringing it over to his mother, asking her to buy it for him.

Leaning down to his level, she held the toy, a wooden puzzle with planes and cars on it, perfect for her little son, who loved all things automotive. But when she flipped it over and her eyes met with the price sticker, her face fell. She handed the puzzle back to the boy.

“I’m sorry, baby. I just…” She felt the ears of other parents on her. They had money to shop here. She didn’t. “Maybe for your birthday, okay?” The boy’s eyebrows went up, his big brown eyes looking into hers.

“No?” He asked her, and she shook her head softly. “No, honey.”

Just like that. The catalyst.

They slowly walked out of the store, the boy holding his mother’s hand instead of a shopping bag. The feeling of disappointment radiated off of him, and the woman could feel it. It was only a puzzle. She felt guilty. The boy’s grip began to tighten on her hand, and she stopped to bend down to look him in the eye, but she was taken aback by the look on his face.

She had misread him. It wasn’t disappointment in his eyes, it was anger. She held both of his hands in hers.

“Sweetie, do you want to go home now?” If she were to be honest she was the one who wanted to go home. The noise of people surrounding her was becoming overwhelming, the cramped air: suffocating. Her son nodded.  And so, they went back the way they came, towards the escalator.

However as the two were just about to step onto the moving stairs, a young girl who looked to be a bit older than the boy cut in front of them. She gave him a glare before turning back around. 

And then, the boy saw it. His mother didn’t notice. The girl that was now in front of them had two bags in each hand. One from the toy store they had just left, and one from the store they avoided.

No one was watching. The woman was busy watching the people downstairs walk about. Those on the opposite side of the escalator were either chatting or just gazing around the mall. No one wanted to be watching the small boy simply holding hands with his mother.

But then the woman felt his hand slip away from hers, and as she looked down to see why, she saw her son put both of his hands on the girl’s back and push as hard as he could.

If there had been more people on the escalator, maybe she wouldn’t have fallen. Maybe she would have just stumbled into the person in front of her and been fine. Maybe she would have been scraped up, but not hurt, and then she would have turned around and pushed the boy back, starting a tussle.

But the escalator was empty.

The girl started to fall, and with no hands free to catch herself, her body was mercilessly tossed down the stairs, producing the most horrible thumping sound the woman had ever heard. She didn’t have time to reach out and try to grab the girl, it all happened too quickly. All she could do was stand there and watch until the girl finally reached the ground, slowly sliding to a stop at the bottom of the escalator entrance.

The people surrounding them went quiet. Everyone stood still for a few seconds, as did time. But then, in an instant, panic settled in.

Some people gasped, some screamed. Adults left their children behind to rush to the girl, to see if she was alright, to see how badly she was hurt. The woman ran down the escalator, two steps at a time, nearly falling too as she tried to get to the child.

This was her son’s fault. He pushed her, he-

The woman watched as a man lifted the girl’s head in his arms, her eyes half open, empty. She watched as he put his head to her chest, and then his fingers on her neck, and then watched him almost recoil as the information reached him. She was dead.

Eyes widening in absolute horror as the girl’s body came into view, the woman joined the man on the ground, kneeling next to them. Her son, her child; he had killed someone.

She was almost sure no one had seen, she barely even saw it happen herself. She felt a crowd begin to gather around them. Think fast. Burying her head in her hands, she started to sob, although no tears left her eyes.

“This is all my fault.” Not loud enough. “It’s all my fault!”

She cried it, loud enough for those surrounding her to hear clearly. Digging her fingers into her eyes, she tried to make the tears come. She needed them to see her cry, needed them to believe her.

Lifting her head up to the ceiling, rays of sunlight streamed through the mall’s massive sunroof, landing beautifully on her cheeks, tears finally starting to fall. The people around her covered their gaping mouths with their hands, some coming over to her to put a hand on her back in comfort. To an onlooker, the scene would look like a piece of art, as if a painting from the Renaissance had come to life, like a prophecy this woman was meant to live.

He was a child, he was her son. There was no way she could allow him to take the blame, allow him to have this accident follow him for the rest of his life, allow him to even know he killed another person. She would convince him it never happened. As he grew older she would never speak of this day again, she would let it become a memory so hazy in his mind he would have no choice but to believe it to be a dream.

Perhaps it was her fault. Perhaps she should have taught him better, should have raised him to not react with violence, should have bought him the puzzle. But then again, he was a child, and she was his mother, on her knees weeping in front of a girl whom he had pushed and killed.