Too close to home.. very good

That's pretty strong stuff, well written.

Briefly I wondered why I kept on going, and at this I flinched, as if I’d silently uttered some wicked blasphemy. Yet how true it was; there was no denying it.
Slowly I drew up my hand and hesitantly knocked twice on the door to his room. The room that had turned into the demon’s abode. I felt so goddamn evil for thinking such thoughts.
“Sweetie?” I tentatively called.
He usually never answered, and it was something I’d grown used to; force of habit making me always call out to him. It gave me a moment of clean, uninterrupted thought (the moment before battle, I always said to myself).
Evil, evil, evil, goddamnit I was so evil for thinking such things.
Again I knocked on the dark wooden door.
“What?” his confused voice came from beyond the door. He sounded like he was emerging from sleep. I panicked slightly that I might have disturbed him. He hated that.
The landing on which I stood was within its own twilight hour; the curtains being constantly swept cleanly shut over the upstairs windows was an obligation on my part; for the light he feared dreadfully.
“Breakfast, dear,” I said quickly, fearing my voice was too quiet.
No answer.

The breakfast-tray that I cradled in my arms was laden with a small rack of toast, a cup of darkest black tea, and a rock-hard boiled egg. To add insult to rather substantial injury, he was lactose-intolerant.
Slowly, I opened the door, and stepped into his room. Like the landing, the small bedroom was held within its own ‘Magic-Hour.’ The thick curtains shielding the light glowed as if something beyond them burned.
There had been a time when this room held nothing but good memories. Albeit a short time. Good things tend not to last long; I have come to find.

He lurked under the duvet, back turned to me. His hair, dark brown - just like his father’s – had gone unwashed for days, maybe weeks (time had somewhat become lost on me). For me, the upkeep of his hygiene had become a perpetual nightmare. The sight of a bath usually sent him into a state of strangled crying, and vicious attempts at causing me some form of injury. On one occasion, he had swallowed his own tongue, during a memorably horrific incident, in which he had attempted to tear my finger off with his bare teeth.
That night I had thought such evil thoughts, and spent the following morning weeping to myself, wanting it all to end, one way or the other.
“Sweetie?” I said, trying to sound soothing. He shifted under the bedclothes. “Do you want me to leave it on the floor, for later?”
As I spoke, I looked around me. Breakfast was one of the few times I stood in his room. Everything was bathed in that same glow of almost unnatural burning, yet darkened, light. The bear he had treasured as a toddler lay shunned in a corner; a heavy cobweb suspended between its plush fur and the wall.
The day when the doctor had diagnosed my boy’s Problem came back to me; the old man’s cragged face leered at me in my mind, unravelling my life before my very eyes.
“Sweetie?” I uttered again, this time accidentally whispering. He hated whispering, and I knew I had crossed a line again.
The sight of him turning to me, his still young face staring at me with nothing but pure loathing, made me want to fall to my knees and just stop. To sleep for the rest of my life. Or his. Whichever ended sooner.
“Get away from me, you demon.”
His paranoid words thudded in my ears, my heart rising into my throat, and tears welled up behind my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered painfully.
He eyed me still, frenzied suspicion flooding his face. His sweet little face.
“I do still love you,” I said quietly, voice wavering. “Even if you can’t remember why.”
“Get away, leave me alone, demon!” he screamed at me, and lurched alarmingly in the bed, tossing and turning. Possessed.
Where oh where had my life fled to? A boat, sailing to lands of promise, leaving me behind to only myself. And him.
I recalled my words: “No doctor, I’m not having my boy thrown into a nuthouse. I’m his mother, and I can take care of him myself.”
My husband had left two years previously. I couldn’t even bring myself to blame him.
“I’m so sorry,” I said quietly, knowing that he couldn’t even hear me. The eggcup on the floor was caught in the path of the duvet lashing through the air, and it fell, the egg cracking on the tray.

I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to hold him and tell him how everything would be okay. Except I didn’t believe it would be. As a young child, he had held my hand when we had walked into the town and back home again on summer days. He had laughed and chatted away to everyone and to no one just like a normal little boy.
I asked myself where I had lost him - where my hand had got separated from his.
And also how much longer I could keep going. The sounds of him thrashing and screaming in the bed carried terrifyingly onto the landing, even when I slammed the door shut and collapsed in front of it, head shaking in my hands.
My son was dead. In that room lay a monster baring nothing but a hollow mask of his beautiful face.
Soon in my hand I clutched the phone.
“Doctor, please, you win,” I tried not to even hide my quaking voice. “I need… I need help from the hospital. Please.”
I felt evil; so very, very evil, and I still mourn my boy, and the wonderful man he would have surely become, before the monster stole his face. I scream out at night sometimes, cold sweat running from me, as I pray for him back from where I once lost my grip on his small hand. From where he was stolen from me.
From where he stopped truly living.