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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
My mother hates my girlfriend and makes her visit a living hell.

Submitted: July 12, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 12, 2008



Saturday, 12 July 2008.

S---- has left. P---- hated every minute of her visit and made difficulties for us whenever she could, making a special effort just to spite us. Sometimes she was frigidly polite. Other times she was downright rude. How she marshaled the stamina for sustained tension over the course of two weeks I will never know. She never once was pleasant, not even by mistake.

Her venom is difficult to fathom. I mean I have no plans to marry the girl. I suppose that I will always be her ‘little boy’ and any woman a threat to her sovereignty. I have made a pact with myself never to invite another guest. No one should suffer such indignities.

My daily tasks: set out the cereal bowl; walk the dog; fill and place the hot water bottle; take out the rubbish; do the painting. My reward: vengeance; slight regard; constant barbs; and of course eating my daily sack of shit.

She had a final dig at me this morning, though S---- is three days gone. She has left Shoba a tip on S----’s behalf, as if S---- would know about such things as tips for servants, having grown up in a trailer park. The dig has brought my spirits low so I go to H--- Park and cycle to clear my head. The whole day is ruined.

The cycling does not do the job, so I visit the Rochester Baths. I boil my body in the sauna, then steam the remnants in the Turkish bath.

When I leave I am exhausted and totally detoxified. The only problem with the place is that today everybody there is gay. It must be ‘gay day’ at the Rochester Baths.

I lay back and try to relax. One man parts his towel and shows me his genitals, which are particularly hairy and disgusting. I escape to the sauna. Another man (an older man) enters and looks longingly at me. He reclines obscenely, spreading out his stringy legs. Out falls his shriveled penis. The heat has baked it so it looks like a waterlogged sausage. Maybe I have a target on my forehead.

After dinner I make the peace with P----, which involves me apologizing for her appalling treatment of S----. My job as son is to be tolerant, even to tolerate the intolerable. It’s all my fault. I have made a bad choice. Her reasoning: she likes to look at ‘beautiful things’ and according to her, S---- does not qualify.

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