Mother

For as long as I can remember, my mother has always been….different. When my classmates would speak about their home lives, their parents, especially when moms were brought up, I felt my chest get heavy. Their moms sat and helped with homework, snacks at the ready, or they listened to endless babbles about interests that changed day to day with soft smiles and eager ears. Some of their moms, much to the classmate’s embarrassment, still tucked them in with kisses and sweet goodnights. 

Me and my mother simply co-existed. She made sure we had necessities, nothing more and sometimes less. Lunchmeat and bread was abundant, like those instant noodles and prepackaged frozen meals. I was old enough to care for myself and the household, apparently. I tucked myself in, I checked my own homework, I talked to myself about everything and anything. My mother only ever had two rules: don’t go into the basement and never go against what she tells you, ever.

My Mother always insisted I never unpack the suitcase I had. We lived out of packed bags and cardboard boxes that could easily be folded up and moved at a moment’s notice. Our houses never had full shelves or pieces of furniture; we slept, sat, and did everything on the floor. 

Mother didn’t have a job, not that I knew of anyway. When I was home, she was in the basement or praying at the small figurine of Jesus Christ. When Mother emerged from the basement, she would lock herself in the bathroom for well past an hour and when that time was up, her skin was raw, sometimes bloodied. When she prayed, on her knees until they were raw and reddened, nonsensical mumblings came from her and no matter how hard I tried, I could never make out what she was saying. She always prayed after coming up from the basement, never before. Sometimes, when Mother clutched Jesus in her hands, knuckles white and head bowed low, back curled almost unnaturally, I could clearly make out a guttural “please forgive me.”

I never watched for too long, she always seemed to know I was there. She didn’t express this, didn’t have to, I just knew that she knew I was close-by. It was like she could smell me, an expert predator, and I the measly prey. Without fail, as I slipped back upstairs, I could always see Mother with a white bottle in hand, inching her way back to the basement. Jesus seemed to also watch her every step. 

My Mother was always insisting on moving, usually at random, and always hopping from state to state. New houses in new towns. father found work pretty easily, typically simple jobs with low wages and no questions; Mother stayed at home, locked up in the basement, then in the bathroom, before doing her song and dance with Jesus, sobbing, wailing, begging. Day in and day out. One time, when I was five, I questioned Mother. It was the last time. 

“Mother, why are we always moving? I can never make any friends.”

We were sitting on the hardwood floor of what would have been a small dining room, cross-legged, with those cups of noodles in front of us. Her head snapped up, a bone cracked, and her hard, black eyes bore holes into my soul. I felt cold when Mother’s hand, calloused, grabbed onto my wrist. Her strength left me speechless. 

“What is rule number two?” I sat, silent, worried, head spinning wildly. Mother tightened her grip and pain licked at my skin, the only warning I’d get. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I swallowed, steadied the rushing waves in my mind. “Never question you, Mother.” The vise grip loosened, just a tad, so I quickly tacked on: “I’m sorry.”

She nodded and resumed dinner. I stared at my own dinner, soggy noodles swimming in a tasteless broth. A pit planted itself in my stomach, burrowed deep, and everything felt heavy, uneasy. Mother cleared her throat, black eyes once again targeting me, warning me, begging me to test her. I stared back down at my noodles and ate slowly, urging them to slide down my throat. Suddenly, there was a shuffling. It was faint, could be shrugged off, but Mother stood abruptly, the cup of noodles toppling over, brown broth trickling along the wooden floor’s lines and edges. Her dress billowed behind her as she ran towards the basement. 

After that night, I learned to never question Mother. Even innocent questions were construed into sin. I quickly understood that no one talked to Mother, Mother talked at you and expected immediate answers when she pointed a question in your direction. My voice was hers and hers alone. Outsiders believed I was either mute or stupid, I was okay with that. 

Over the years, I learned other hidden rules to live by. Listen, obey, keep your head down and eyes on the floor, answer Mother with a yes or a no, never shake your head or nod or shrug, and keep the family name to yourself. 

One time, I overheard a classmate bragging about her successful businessman father, how they got to travel with him sometimes and see sights most of us could only dream of. I figured that my father must be the same, then. I mean, he was rarely ever home, always away, and when he was with us, he was holed up in a separate room. It was why we had to randomly pick up and move so often, Mother probably wanted to be closer to father’s work. 

I had excitedly ran home from the bus stop, bookbag slapping against my back with every step. When I found my Mother, staring out the window towards the trees that lined the back of our newest house, I let her know that I now knew why we moved so frequently and why we couldn’t unpack or get too comfortable. Mother was stiff, straight backed and jaw tight, fists clenched at her sides, though something in her eyes seemed sad…..

“And why is that?” Even her voice had come out tight.

“Because father is a businessman!”

The stiffness dissipated at once, as if every atom in her existence loosened simultaneously. In all the moments I can recollect from my time with Mother, this was the only time she offered affection as she extended her hand and patted my head. It was rough, unsure, and odd, but in that moment my body and mind had exploded with warmth. 

“That’s right, my sweet boy, how observant of you.” Her voice had been sweet at the time, though bitter in my recountings. 

I had smiled at Mother for the first time in my conscious childhood and later on, when I was immersed in homework, the muffled noises below my feet didn’t make me fall to the floor, ear on wood, urging them to tell me what was happening in the basement. I instead hyper focused on my Mother’s first and only loving interaction with me, the warmth spreading from scalp to toenail. 

When morning broke, Mother entered my room and pulled my suitcase from the closet. She ordered me to pack up anything I had taken out, leave no trace of my existence. To my namesake, at the time, I only had one book, a nightlight, and about four days worth of clothing. The nightlight was my only friend, it kept me company when those weird noises kept me awake at night. Mother insisted they were house noises, typical and normal, but she got me the nightlight, promising that nothing would hurt me as long as I listened to her every word. 

“Are you hearing me?”

I had fallen into a trance at that time. I used to blame it on the morning haze of waking up, now I think it was a way to cope, to exist, to survive. 

“Yes, Mother.”

She nodded curtly, “good. Be ready in two hours.”

Mother left with quickness, long limbs carrying her so gracefully, each move expertly calculated then executed. She reminded me of those porcelain ballerinas that danced around and around in constant circles, though I wish that grace bled into her personality. 

I had gotten to my feet at that point, changing into new clothes before shoving my two things into the bag, zipping it closed. A new house, a new town, a new state. It used to be exciting, a brand new adventure, new people, new sights and weather. And I used to always pray that something would finally click into place in my Mother’s head, that she would blossom into the loving mom I knew was hiding in there. Instead, I got those cold, sunken in eyes and sharp commands that left no room for questions, confusion, or conversation. 

My suitcase went into the hands of my beaten down father, a stranger, a man I had no connection with and would feel nothing when he inevitably died. He placed the small amount of bags into the back of his truck, taking his seat at the wheel and staring ahead with eyes so void, a corpse held more emotion in those milk coated eyes. I’m taken away from watching my father by frantic, wild mumbles. They were fast, incoherent, Mother’s familiar madness bursting free. I was led to them, as if the words gained form, its ghostly hand pulling me to her, to Mother. 

The event was nothing new, the mumblings of a madwoman, yet I still found myself observing the weird creature with intense interest. I was flush against the wall, hands planted firmly, keeping me in reality. I always feared I held the same mind as my Mother. Leaning over, just enough to keep sight of her, I watched as her worn dress danced behind her as she paced before Jesus’ worried glance. The skirt didn’t even try to hide the bandage laced tight around Mother’s right calf, blood already beginning to soak through. Freshly injured. 

Words bubbled from her cracked, bitten lips and flew right over to me. Yet when they finally popped, nothing made sense. Her words were far too quick, too mumbled, with too much breathiness. Mother made a swipe for Jesus and held him in her fierce grip, knuckles turning snow white. 

I shifted back before her eyes found me. Her voice pitched then lowered back down before once again pitching, high and breathy. Mother always freaked out just before our moves, like clockwork, almost as if her brain was wired on a countdown until everything malfunctioned. 

I still wonder how a spineless man like my father got so intertwined with this black widow of a woman. Was it something missing in his childhood? Lack of a mother? Lack of common sense? Or was the bar simply that low? Desperate to continue his lineage? Simply desperate?

Whatever, the reason didn’t matter, it was something that always tickled the back of my mind, something many therapists questioned and pursued, as if they didn’t deal with the same bullshit again once I left and some other lost cause walked in. 

Back to the memory at hand, my feet had started carrying me towards the forbidden fruit. I was always curious, that morning was no different. I knew better, I knew this could backfire wonderfully, but something had crawled inside and was guiding me towards delicious danger. I was always able to curb any wandering that my mind did, biting down questions about the basement, about my Mother’s outbursts, about my father’s uselessness, about why they even had a child in the first place when neither of them seemed capable. That morning was different, it was like my brain had been swapped out overnight. I was a new boy. 

I opened the door, slowly, my other hand following the door as it opened toward me, silencing any possible creaking. Mother’s incoherent mumblings echoed down the hall, the familiarity oddly calming my racing heart as I descended the concrete, her voice fading with each downward step. Something heavy and pungent hung in the air. My brain was screaming, begging me to climb back up the stairs and get as far away as I could. Something was wrong, something was off. But did I listen? Of course not. I wouldn’t be here if I did.

Some other part of my brain told me to look up and I did not expect to be witness to a human pinata. Naked as the day she was born, hooks anchored from the ceiling curled into her back, keeping her suspended. Her breasts were gone, cut clean from her body in a precise, careful manner, and she was sewn closed down below like a barbie doll. Mystery lady’s eyes were trained right on me, full of fear despite her chapped lips being formed into a smile pulled way too tight. Her hands had been clasped together, as if she were praying, while her feet simply dangled below her, toes could come close to grazing the concrete if she just stretched. Her skin was raw and red, though completely clean of any blood. Mother was very thorough, after all. 

I peered down at the floor again and to the right and left of the dangling mystery lady laid two more bodies, naked and bloody, with the same missing parts. Another woman was also missing her breasts, fresh blood still oozing onto the tarp she was dumped onto; she too was sewn shut with her hands clasped atop her flat chest. The other body was a man, his nipples had been sliced off and his penis had been cut off, though his balls still laid there between the wet slick of blood smeared across his inner thighs. A scalpel’s tip pointed threateningly at the sac, awaiting its time to strike. 

I cautiously stepped forward when the man’s foot twitched, once, twice before a groan escaped him, his eyes slowly coming to life, grabbing me in a death hold. We stared at each other for a while, both bewildered at the other’s presence, before he screamed. A piercing, blood curdling scream that still lingers within my dreams and haunts the quiet moments of my days. It could have been out of throbbing pain or paralyzing fear or the fact that two dead women portrayed his future. Either way, I clasped my hands over my ears and backed up until I hit a semi-soft surface. 

I knew what it was, it was, but I still craned my neck back to see her. A smile, blood chilling, greeted me. “Oh my sweet boy, didn’t I always tell you to listen to Mother?”