She dragged me to the closet and threw me inside, my tears now glistening silver trails of salted water running down my face and the taste along with liquefied snot was dancing around my taste buds, but I still cried. I banged on the door, but all mother said was.
“The more you complain the longer you stay in there.”
This is what she says every time and I know she will keep me here until she is good and ready.
My mother always sticks me in this closet, although she knows I hate the dark, it scares me, and the coldness that envelopes me, makes me feel, alone and scared, and I close my eyes until she once more lets me out.
This time I might be in here an hour, or maybe if she thought I was real naughty I would have to stay in here all night.
“Please mum, I’ll be good!” I say with a whisper. I hear her talking to herself again.
“He’s always naughty and he belongs in there, don’t tell me what to do! Yes he is corrupted by the devil, he keeps leering at me in the shower, and he watches me when I get undressed……I caught him, this is for his own good lord”
I hear mother talking to God; he’s the only man she talks to now since my father left us, six months ago. Dad left because as he put it,
“Your mum is not quite right in the head son, I loved her once but I can’t stay here, I’ll send for you when I get settled”.
That was six years ago and I have never seen him since that day he left.
“Mommy, I’m sorry please let me out”
No reply is forthcoming to my please for leniency and as I peek through the crack in the door I see mum as usual dressed in her smartest navy blue dress with her favourite floral apron on, the house smells like a local bakery all airy and the fresh baked scones sit on the cooling rack. I love scones, but I doubt that I will be having any tonight.
I will probably have nothing to eat and only darkness and my own thoughts company. I do love my mum, I think; but she is torn between a love she lost, and me, the shorter embodiment and constant reminder of the man that left her and in her mind was the cause of all of her suffering and pain.
The pills she took with the bottle of gin in her hand could not be good for her and the bruises I often had on my face, and arms were testament of Gods! Wrath she told me.
“I channel his authority!” she says as she hits me or cuts me with the belt buckle during her anger and drunken tirades. It’s always my fault I get hurt and I know deep inside she is a good person but I do nothing wrong.
I know I am quite immature for my age, but I have also been told I have the patience of a saint and that I am mature for my small number of years. I sometimes have problems mixing with people and to stop the awkwardness I will often sit in shadows and wait for mother after church, or shopping. The trouble is that since I was four years old, this closet has been almost like my only real sanctuary, a place of peace, not the church but the darkness of four timber walls and my own thoughts. For eight years now I have been terrified of this darkness that entombs me, but my eyes do not betray me, and I know every scratch and mark in the wood, the coldness of the hinges and the small dart of light that she stuffs with a tissue which is the key hole.
My mind is now races back to the reality that is the confined darkness where I sit and allow this darkness to permeate and leach into my soul, I both fear, and love it but the scared four year old boy is all but a faded memory and the much calmer more caged twelve year old sits in my place.
I don’t know when it happened, I can’t tell you that much, but I do remember that it happened one day when I was tearful and scared out of my wits, and the next deep sorrowful breath I was at ease with my dark surroundings.
I noticed the smells all around me, the comfort of the dissipating moth balls, and the musk of a moist winter’s coat. The stale feet smell of her shoes and the red high heels I love so much.
I felt in the darkness for the cold leather, removed my soiled shoes and socks and placed the still cold patent on my feet. I felt strange, like an alien, but exciting at the same time, and as I stroked the red leather and felt the length of the heel running away from my heel down to a solid metallic tip, I drew a long lingering breath.
For the first time in my life I noticed my penis fill with joy as I stroked the leather, I closed my eyes I saw hundreds of red heeled feet dancing around me, but in my mind’s eye I looked further up, they were all my mother, and she wasn’t dancing she was yelling at me, stomping on me! The heels were digging into my flesh, blood spots appearing like blood red rose buds all over my body, I screamed a cold dark silent scream in my head, and snapped.
I reached for the shoe that was on my foot and as its warmth and weight translated into my hand for me to use on my dream attacker she stopped looked at me and said “you’ll turn out just like your father” that’s when in my mind the heel entered her bulging, almost furious right eye and popped like a balloon as the metal spike forced its way three inches into her brain, and as she fell dead to the floor, I opened my eyes and smiled as I noticed the moisture in my pants where my penis still throbbed but had started to subside.
I sat and waited enjoying the warm leather on my feet, imagining I was a movie star at a gala event, cameras flashing; people all wanting to be with me. I remembered Doris Day, she was beautiful and boy could she sing, mum would allow me to sit with her and watch the midday movies when her movies were on sometimes.
I smiled and at that moment I knew I would never fear the closet again after this day, and I thought about the next time what would I do how I would spend my time. Then the door burst open and she dragged me out spitting bible verse through her numb lips and dragging me to the bed where she used her hand on my white exposed cheeks, they welted and blushed with smack after smack but I did not cry, I laid still, and my eyes closed around the world as my body went numb and withdrew into its own darkness. I met myself there and we chatted for what seemed like hours, but it was fleeting moments in a young man’s mind.
I spent the next three years honing my skills in the darkness, and in this time I also grew into a young man, now six feet tall and full of testosterone. I would see her watching me pleasuring myself through the gap between the door and the frame, all the time I hearing her sobbing between moans of lust in her room later.
I now had everything I needed from my mother, the reason the hate and the means by which to enforce it. I soon realised it was time to put my new found lust for life to the test.
I was sick of tormenting the local dogs and cats, especially cats I hated them so much, because like me they lived for the darkness creeping around unseen and silent of footfall, but I also admired as much as never trusted one of them.
You see a cat can make you think they love you, want you, need you. They make you pat and cuddle and snuggle them, but all the time it is a rouse, a lie, they are using you to get what they want, they crave, their unbridled need to take for personal pleasure is just so pure and when they want to leave they simply leave.
If you have ever tried to move a feline that was comfortable then you know the results, hissing scratching even a bite, but they will often lay in wait and hurt you when you least expect it, and they make it feel as if you deserved it.
Today is a special day it’s my sixteenth birthday, I made my way to school pretty much as normal hung out by myself for a while then joined the cool kids as part of my learning routine. I have to fit in, as well as be invisible and I was now getting pretty damn good at it. My walk home was uneventful and the local neighbours all waved nervously as I walked past. They all know the history of my mother and her antics but if only they knew the real story they would run and hide, lock yourselves away cowards.
As normal when I walked through the door with a banana cream sponge I had purchased on the way home she was drunk. There she lay, my passed out, god fearing mother, as always she had forgotten and was lying in a pool of her own malt sputum. After placing the cake in the refrigerator I gently stooped down and helped her up, sitting her on the kitchen chair; I had assembled just for her, at the head of the table.
I then grabbed the lavender scented wash cloth and rinsed it in the cold tap water, wrung it out and proceeded to wash her face and mouth.
Once she was clean I placed her old red heels on her alcohol bloated feet, and taking a ruby red lipstick I had purchased for just such an occasion I ran the oily colored substance around her thin, pursed and slightly mumbling lips. Ah “why so Sad” I said making a reference to the joker. Another hero of mine
I took my time and fastened special elasticised Velcro straps to her wrists and ankles that helped keep her upright as much as retraining her.
My depleted and completely out of it mother sat drooling down her chin and into her lap as I sat patiently for two hours watching, remembering the acts of utter cruelty she made me endure. I turned the light off and just sat there observing her troubled sleep, reciting passages from the bible, mumbling to herself and reliving a time long ago as she cursed my father. Then without warning her eyes slowly started to open and it hit home that she was starting to sober up.
“What are you doing to me” she spat at me with the vehemence of a cobra.
I just sat looking watching for about a minute before answering.
“It’s my birthday mother, I just thought you would like to help me sing happy birthday and watch as I blow out the candles” I replied with just a hint of arrogance.
She watched me and twitched as I walked to the fridge, opened the chipped door and removed the banana cream sponge with sixteen candles on it.
“Oh my dear god, you’re a pervert, a fag” the words drifted out of her moist opening with indifference and a hint of “I told ya so’ on them. The red heals I was wearing were patent leather, four inches tall and amazingly comfortable, they made my calves taught and terrific, just like Doris’s. I did a twirl and placed the cake on the table then stepped back and smiled at her while I slowly ran the bright red lipstick around my full lips. The sweet oily smell of the ruby lipstick had the desired affect and it started fuelling my hormones and my hate. I turned quickly and stood in front of her to one side.
“No mother, I am no fag, nor a queer, A pervert maybe, but I love women and this is my way of showing them I adore how they look and feel” I said as I lit the candles on my cake.
“Do you even know how old I am mother” I said as she was mumbling bible verse and pleading for god to help me.
“God has played no part in my development mother and your god left you years ago with my father” I yelled at her.
“Now; why don’t you be a good mummy and sing happy birthday to your little boy” I sad grabbing her by the hair and smashing her face into the table surface.
“Oh look mummy had a boo boo,” I laughed as she spat blood and teeth onto her chin past her ruined bottom lip.
I leant down, blew out the candles and closed my eyes while I made a wish
“Untie me devils child, I am your mother and why do you have me bound to this chair” she screamed, almost demanding that I remove the straps from her wrists and ankles. I moved behind her and slipped the gag I had fashioned out of a dog toy ball and some twine into her bleeding mouth to shut her up.
“Now mother lets all just play nice it’s my birthday after all , see Mr. Burns is being quiet” I said as I pointed to the teddy I loved as a child that she burnt and disfigured in one of her drunken rages.
Her eyes now understanding the gravity of what was going on she almost pleaded, looking at me with blood shot eyes that had dark bags of salted skin hanging underneath.
If her eyes could be trusted they would have said, “Please let me go I’ll be nice now I promise” but it was just a little too late for that now.
I moved to her right shoulder and sang my song to myself all the while she was crying and sniffling beneath me. I leant forward and placed my cheek next to hers and as I told her my wish I slid the blade of the cake knife across her throat so hard I felt bone at the back of her spine, and heard the scrape as the two met. My jaw was so tight I cracked a molar with the ecstasy of my release from her. My pants were wet with jubilation and her death in my arms was so, so exquisite.
“Go with your god now mother” I whispered into her ear. I undid the straps lifted the dead weight and dragging a bloody trail behind me; I placed her in the pantry cupboard and closed the door, slapping my hands together in a job well done gesture.
Enjoy the darkness that you forced me to endure then love mother, for I now know who I am. I am a product of your gods making, but with a little help from my father’s genes and my mother’s drunken madness and hatred.
“You see mother, we all hear the voices, but the key is listening!”
© Copyright 2016 Ian Dawn. All rights reserved.
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