Mother Knows Best

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Maybe she was right.
But maybe she wasn’t?
I brushed it off.
Nah. Mother knows best.

Submitted: May 20, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 20, 2016



I always believe that my memories are not to be believed.

There are multiple occasions when my mother says, “You are so forgetful,” “That never happened,” “You are imagining things,” and I believe that. I do, actually, forget a lot of things. I can pass a door and suddenly forget what I was about to do. I can daydream about something and suddenly it can totally vanish to thin air. I don’t have any memories until I was about ten. All the memories of the past are told to me, and I have never questioned it. Not even once.

At least until that night.

I was out with my father to go to eat some food. My brother had to go to his psychologist that night, and so I was alone with my father, eating out in a regular restaurant and talked. It was normal talk, like how was I doing with school and stuff. Though, of course, being a normal teenager, I lied a lot. I lied about having friends that understand me and help me a lot during projects. I lied about having okay scores. I lied about being treated kindly by my classmates. I didn’t mention anything about the mockeries of my looks, the bucket that was splashed over my head, the silent treatment from most of my other classmates. It was a happy night- I don’t want to ruin it. They are rare, after all. Life is so hard, isn’t it? Everyone’s life is, including mine, I guess.

Then we were talking about what happened at home. This time, I wasn’t able to lie. My father knew what my mother was like. Besides, it was kind of satisfying to talk about my mother to my father. And he deserved to know, too. So I talked. And talked. About various things, mostly events when I actually met my mother in the house, since not much happened in the house, except when we meet- though it always ended with her shouting at me, calling me bad words. It was okay; my other friends said that their parents were a bit of a nag as well. Not without the bad words though, but I guess some people just express themselves differently. And then his face contorted uncomfortably, like he just saw a kitten crushed under car’s wheels. I said sorry, and he said it was okay. Then I decided that it was enough, that I didn’t need to talk about how my mother told me to go die the other day. It was just a spur of the moment thing, I convinced myself.

And then my father sent me home, I walked in, I walked to my room, and then I cried. I wasn’t sure why, but I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning I prepared for school and saw myself in the mirror. I saw the scar that I thought was made when my mother was mad at me and slashed me with a cutter that she normally used for work. I remembered when she told me no, told me that my imagination was getting a bit out of control, told me that I was a lying bitch. It was a vivid memory for me, and I didn’t even know why, but it was when I brought it up during a conversation with my classmate’s mother who asked about the scar, that she glared at me like the times that she’d slap me at home, but she didn’t. She smiled, laughed, and said, “You are just imagining things. You got that when you were working on your group project.”

I didn’t have group projects because no one wanted to pair up with me.

But my mother had better memories, so I said sorry and smiled too.

Maybe she was right.

But maybe she wasn’t?

I brushed it off. Nah. Mother knows best.

© Copyright 2019 Cathair Cathmore. All rights reserved.

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