Ah, Leslie, if you're going to post your son's phone number, I recommend that you do it now, before he goes on trial for murder.
Whose murder? Yours, Leslie. He's going to kill you, you know. One day he'll be all happy and "Yes, Mom" and "Okay" and everything, and then that night he's going to wake up remembering what was said to him, remembering what they called him, remembering what they made him do. And he's going to be angry, angry with himself for going along with it, angry at his dad for allowing it, and more than that, angry with you.
And he's going to wake you up by putting his hands around your neck and digging his thumbs into your throat as hard as he can. Just like on TV, Leslie. You'll wake up with no air, no air at all. You'll look, pleading, into his eyes and all you'll see is his grin, that malevolent grin that will haunt you for the rest of your very short life.
And when he's finally done and your corpse lies in your bed as if you were simply asleep, he's going to get some mashed-together duct tape or some heavy twine, hook it to the ceiling, and make it look like you killed yourself.
It won't work, of course. The police will find his thumb indentations sufficient evidence to get him to confess. But when he does go, he'll go with a smile on his face, because he finally managed to get you out of his life.
