I buried my mother...alive

Reads: 24  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a story of a child who purposively and deliberately buries her mother alive to arrive at a place of relief, release and peace.

I BURIED MY MOTHER…ALIVE

No child should ever have to bury her parent…alive.

I buried my mother at a young age. I don’t remember when. I could have been six or seven, maybe eight, but definitely no older than that. But the thing is, she wasn’t dead. Let me explain.

I was born to a seventeen-year-old narcissist in 1973. I didn’t know the term then, for obvious reasons, and I didn’t know the word for a long time thereafter, but I learned it and I understand now why I had to bury her…alive…as a child.

I was a precocious child, but not unlike many children born to narcissists I was also very lonely, no, not lonely, let me rephrase that, I was alone a lot, with my thoughts because I was rarely permitted in HER home to engage with words, at least out loud. My words were frequently shaped as silent thoughts like how I could survive her today…and thinking ahead…hopefully, how I could survive her tomorrow.

She had the baby and brought her home. I was relieved, I think. Truth be told I don’t remember her as a mother prior to the time of this birth, and I certainly don’t remember the narcissistic tendencies until after the girl’s birth. The more the girl was blanketed and protected, the more exposed and vulnerable I became; still her birth was a blessing; her growing up not so much. The more she doted on the girl, the less rage was directed at me. I was safe when the baby was in her arms, but the baby started to grow…separate, but connected, outside the womb, internalizing the manipulation and the rage, and basking in it. She became a human monster who lived not under my bed but in my real life.

“I will make my mummy beat you”.

I had asked to share her sweet treats.

I first heard, then felt the impact, but I was confused, unsure as to whether something struck my head or my head struck something…deliberately. I just remembered the physical pain and the berating which would knowingly follow.

“You little fool. I told you to shut up. This is what you get for talking rubbish. Keep it up and see if one day I don’t just kill you”.

I lay on the bed refusing to sob. My head would get better. It would just be sore for a while I reasoned. This is just how life is. Sometimes I did wonder if other kids were treated this way. Other kids outside my home I mean. The girl was never subjected to this treatment, so I spent a lot of time daydreaming about kids like me and other kids too, but mostly kids like me.

“What is this? You little whore! What is this?” She was holding a card she had found in my school bag. I had written my friend a cordial birthday greeting, but I should have known better. He was a boy. I felt the belt buckle pierce my skin one time, two times, three times, then I lost count. Afterwards I continued to get dressed for school. The soft cotton material irritating the raw blisters on my back. One hand in, then the other and finally I managed to get my uniform on. I walked casually over to my neighbour’s house, the designated carpool driver that day. We all loaded into the car and I so easily and hungrily conversed with the car’s occupants until I reached my destination. I would miss them I thought, but only until tomorrow. I had to get through today.

Let me assure you that this is not a story about abuse or even healing. It is not about violence, victimology or victory. It is in its simplest sense insight, burial and peace. The abuse is secondary, the healing primary, but the burial fundamental to this story, because it weaves the three together in a whole, not as patched pieces, but as a solid mending, because the fray is undetectable such that the joining of the once torn pieces of human fabric appears seamless.

I understand now how she made me question the severity of the abuse, compelling me to cross-examine my own recollection, goading on my reliance of my own memories. All the while supported by the bullying acts of the girl.

“Really? Really? I did that? Something is seriously wrong with your mind. You are such a dramatist. I never treated you two any differently.”

In the face of evidence, there was just denial after denial, so I tamped down my emotions and decided to bury her while she was alive. I wanted her to feel fear as I covered her over and dirtied her with the mud. In my child’s mind I wanted her to be traumatized as each mound of earth covered her over. But death is not child’s play, so now my adult thoughts turn to a hope of peace as she was interred. My prayers shifted and I hoped that with each fresh mound her eyes closed and gave her the first sense of real peace her mind ever permitted, not to think of her wrongs, because not even at death could she contemplate another’s pain, but the permission to think of nothing, nothing about afflictions, manipulations, anger, deceit, disguise, fraudulence, hatred, degradation, nothing of the sort…nothingness.

Despite the burial being very deliberate, I hadn’t noticed that I had buried her. There were no outward signs of a funeral. There was no casket, no flowers or tributes and there were no mourners. No one mourned her, yet in life she had put on such a spectacular show. She was undoubtedly the star each time she walked on to life’s stage; a great actress, yet no one mourned her? I had buried her before they got the chance, to maintain her dignity, so that they would not see HER and renege on promises, regret their vows to worship…HER.

I could hear her eulogy though; likely drafted by her own hand; part poetry, part prose, all worshipful, and I started to get sick from the hypocrisy, so I dragged her living body to the open grave, and I rolled her in with as much strength as my child-like frame could muster. I lifted the shovel, and I placed the dirt in and over with ease and composure until I filled her in. I buried her alive, not in the recesses of my mind or the aches of my calloused heart where she might at times casually climb out, but in the grave and I made a final request of that Higher Power, that I may never see her again as she rests in peace. Certainly, this was a peace she could never know as a living, practicing narcissist. I buried her less for my own peace and more for her own because I understood now that she was self-loathing, self-combative, self-belligerent; her life was the anti-repose:

“You nasty dirty little whore. You will never amount to anything. You know you only got this far because of me. I clothed you, fed you and educated you. I don’t owe you a damn thing. You OWE me and I OWN you.”.

Her final words before I buried her. By now she was exhausted I suspected, so in my child’s mind I needed to silence her thoughts for her sake, and put her to rest, so with the shovel in hand I scraped the last piece of earth on to the mound and finally in all my six, seven, eight years…silence…I had buried her...alive.

 


Submitted: April 01, 2021

© Copyright 2021 stacetheace. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:


Facebook Comments

More Flash Fiction Short Stories

Boosted Content from Premium Members

Short Story / Commercial Fiction

Book / Commercial Fiction

Short Story / Literary Fiction

Other Content by stacetheace

Short Story / Thrillers

Short Story / Flash Fiction

Short Story / Flash Fiction