The firefighters called me to hold the boy who just killed his mother. I’m a 54-year-old biker with tattoos covering both arms and a leather vest I’ve worn for thirty years. I’m not a counselor. Not a social worker. Not family.
But when dispatch radioed our motorcycle club’s crisis line at 3 AM, they said one sentence that got me out of bed: “We need someone who won’t break. The child won’t stop screaming.”
These are men who run into burning buildings. Men who’ve seen death a hundred times.
And they were all crying.
The fire captain met me at the door. His hands were shaking. “The boy is five years old. His name is Marcus. He woke up smelling smoke and tried to wake his mother. She told him to run outside and call 911. He did exactly what she said.”
“She didn’t make it out?” I asked.
The captain shook his head. “Smoke inhalation. She got him to the door but collapsed in the hallway. By the time we got here…” He couldn’t finish.
“Where’s the boy?”
“Kitchen. He won’t let anyone touch him. Keeps saying it’s his fault. Keeps saying he killed her because he called 911 instead of helping her.”
The captain grabbed my arm. “He’s been screaming for an hour. We can’t get him to stop. Someone remembered your club helps with trauma situations. Kids who’ve been through hell. We didn’t know who else to call.”Continue reading…
