I would never be like my mother. Since I was thirteen, I have held those words close to my heart—since my father died and everything that came after. That was a promise to myself that I knew I must keep.
All my life, I knew that my family was poor. Living in a bad neighborhood, going to an underfunded school, often going days without light or heat in the small complex we lived in, eating at most one meal a day—these were, without a doubt, the fundamentals of being ‘poor.’ There was no point in denying it, for any of us.
My dad, despite working, made little money. Poor choices in his childhood and early adult years left him with nearly no skills, and he was stuck working long hours at a fast-food restaurant in the middle of the inner city. My mom, though she always claimed she would eventually come around and support the family—after my dad’s constant prodding—never did much besides leave the house late at night and smoke throughout the day. During those years, however, I did not have the hatred for my mother that I do now. The only difference between my mother and father was that the latter worked, after all.
I mentioned that my father worked long hours in the inner city. Such a job inevitably came with risks, and one of those risks claimed him one night. He was on a closing shift, and through the terrible misfortune that seems to follow people like us, he caught a stray bullet in his lung. A shootout had happened across the street, and my father had been the only casualty. It was on the news the following morning, then gone a day later. My father’s name was never uttered again. Not by me, and not by my mother.
If you asked me how I felt at the time, I would say sad, without a doubt. However, no tears came to my eyes. I never wondered why, though perhaps as I’ve aged, I’ve come to understand: he simply wasn’t around enough for any strong feelings to well up inside me. I am certain that, if he heard me say that, he would be heartbroken. However, I cannot help how I feel. The only consolation I could offer his memory was that I did not despise him as I did my mother.
There was no funeral, but my grandmother, whom I had never seen, had arranged a tombstone and burial site for him. We found out a month after the ordeal, and another month later, my mom and I set out to visit him. Thankfully, the cemetery where my father was buried was only an hour’s walk away. There was no warning of our departure; one morning, my mother simply grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out of bed.
That morning, I saw something floating over my mother. It was some sort of dark mass—I can only describe it as a parasite. The very next moment, as though it knew I had laid eyes on it, it latched itself to the back of my mother’s neck, like a spider hiding away. It emitted a strange, warped tune—like an old, creaking violin. You had to strain your ears to hear it, yet it hummed that terrible song for the entire walk to the graveyard. My mother seemed completely unaware of it.
I’m sure you know that popular folk story about the colorful creatures that acted as divine protection: when they found their hosts, they would rest gracefully upon the fortunate souls’ shoulders and sound a beautiful song. For a very short moment, I thought that was what had plagued my mother. However, I felt a terrible, irrefutable sense of dread and loneliness upon seeing it. As if it were threatening me with something. A stifling fear paralyzed me, and I was unable to say a single word about its existence.
By the time we arrived, it was evening, and the sky overhead was grey and cloudy—a melancholy scene. My father’s tombstone stood only about two feet tall, bearing his name and date of birth. There was nothing else of note to comment on.
My mother stared at the tombstone for only a moment before withdrawing a cigarette from her pocket and lighting it. I stood beside her, unmoving, gazing at the stone. Five minutes passed before she bent down and put out the cigarette atop it, smearing ash across its face. I watched in awe as she did so. The cigarette fell unceremoniously to the ground, and, between painful coughs, my mother spat on it.
“You good-for-nothing deadbeat,” she said harshly, coughing for a while longer. “You didn’t even leave anything behind.”
She turned to me with some sort of glint in her eye. Even now, I cannot describe it. “Your father left us here all alone. Even your grandmother, who I called yesterday for money, did not give me a single dime. You see it now, don’t you? They left me all alone to fend for you. They think I am incapable. I’ll show them.”
That was all she said before turning on her heel and walking off. I snuck a peek at the back of her neck, and, indeed, the dark parasite was still there. It had grown somewhat. It seemed to be creeping down her back.
Despite the trauma expected after losing a parent, I still had to attend school. There is not much to say about my school life, as I had no friends, nor did I venture to make any. I wasn’t particularly dedicated to my schoolwork, nor could I see any sort of future for myself. Something changed, however, after that grave visit with my mother. I found myself paying attention in class a bit more. My grades improved little by little, though I was never an honor student or anything. It was safe to say that, with time, I would be able to get my high school diploma without difficulty—something I was unsure of before. Maybe it was a byproduct of using my brain more in those classes—I am unsure even now; I am no psychologist—but I found myself thinking more. About the people around me. About my circumstances. I started to have opinions on things I had never even considered before.
After school, I often returned home to an empty house. My mother was seldom home anymore, not only during the night but during the day as well. I often had to fend for myself, making use of whatever was in the fridge or cupboards. Sometimes, my mom would leave a five-dollar bill on the kitchen table for me to do whatever I wished with.
I quickly got used to being alone—at school, at home. It became a cycle that I didn’t have any strong feelings about. One day, I got home a bit later than usual; I had gone out of my way to get ice cream with the five-dollar bill I had saved from one of the previous days. If you asked me why I decided to get ice cream instead of food, I can only tell you that it was a craving. It was not my first time having ice cream, nor was there anything especially sentimental about it; however, as I sat beside the road, slowly licking the dessert, I was reminded of a time when my mother had brought home a similar cone one weekend morning after a night out. Before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face.
I went home that day with a certain feeling in my chest. For one of the first times in a while, I was hoping to see my mother. It was an unfamiliar, terrible craving—even now I cannot faithfully describe it, nor have I felt anything like it since. There was a deep, scratching pain in my chest—I could hardly breathe as I approached the door to that small complex. I was sweaty all over, and my vision was terribly blurred. It upsets me now to admit it, but I really, really wished my mother was there that day. I wanted nothing more in the whole wide world at that moment. I missed her.
I got what I wanted: I could see my mother’s shoes by the door. She was indeed home. A wave of… something came over me. I am hesitant to call it happiness. However, as a certain sound reached my ears, the feeling was replaced with something else. Disbelief, anger, sadness, fear… Whatever negative emotion you have in mind, I felt it.
I was only thirteen at the time, yet even I knew what sexual indulgence sounded like. My mom’s raspy, strained voice, moaning along with the heavy, deep grunts of what could only be a man. The creaking of the old floorboards as the two of them engaged in their depraved acts. I will never forget it. It was the most hideous, ugly sound I have ever heard in my life. It was in its terrible depravity that I found myself unable to stop listening. In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to say that I wanted to listen to every second.
I crept into my bedroom and shut the door. Sitting on my mattress, I listened, tears streaming from my eyes. I was not sobbing; I didn’t make a sound. However, the tears wouldn’t stop. As I waited and listened, I thought: Why could I never see my mother? What caused her to withdraw from my life? Was this the reason that she never came home? Was this indulgence of hers better than her own son? The two of them continued for another ten minutes until they were finally done. Rustling clothes and small bursts of laughter were heard, and a few minutes later, the two of them left the house. I remained unmoving, wide awake, until late into the night, when my mother finally came home. I waited longer, until there was absolutely no more movement in the house.
I found myself walking toward the torn-up, secondhand couch in our living room. On it, my mother lay, sleeping on her stomach. She was sweaty all over, and she reeked of alcohol. The first thing I noticed was the dark parasite—it was darker and larger than ever before, and it crept down the entirety of her naked back. I felt no fear or hesitation upon seeing it. Instead, I felt such a revolting sense of hatred for the woman lying in front of me that I might very well have done something unthinkable if a more childish feeling hadn’t taken hold of me first. I decided to run away from home.
I took nothing with me, and for a month I was—by and large—homeless. I checked the news every day, any way I could: through televisions in shops, through discarded newspapers. However, there was never a missing-child report about me during that entire month. My tears were well dried up at that point.
I stopped going to school, if it needs to be said, and worked odd jobs until I was old enough to apply for a job at a fast-food restaurant in the inner city. During that time, I was fortunate enough to find a young college student I could bunk with, though she insisted I pay half the rent. I had nowhere else to go, and so I was obliged, though it took up most of my paycheck. I spent the rest of my adolescent years living with that woman.
Once I reached legal age, I scraped together all my savings and began my journey to the train station. This journey took an entire day, though it was not because the station was in the next city over or anything of that nature. I wandered around my city for a long while beforehand. At first, I was unsure exactly what I was trying to find. Once I found it, I knew immediately.
On a street I cannot name, two streets away from where I stood, I saw a woman. She was talking very merrily to an older man, each of them holding one of a young child’s hands. I knew—I knew without a doubt—that woman was my mother. I could see only her retreating figure; however, another thing struck me. The dark mass that had once been upon her back was no longer there. For one reason or another, I felt sick and feverish, as if someone were sticking an ice-cold dagger into the back of my neck.
After resting under a bridge, I grabbed the next train and rode as far away as I could. I ended up in this town, where I’ve been working tirelessly for ten years. I wanted nothing more than to be nothing like her, and I used that desire as motivation to build what I have now. I got a house, a car, a steady job… All in my own name—things my mother never could have done. However, I’ve been unable to shake these thoughts the entire time. It’s almost as if they’re haunting me.
This spiel took about fifteen minutes. It was my first time doing any sort of therapy—under normal circumstances, I would never have considered it. The pain in my neck was only growing, and it seemed to ache with each recurring thought of my past—of my mother. It was only on a whim that I had come here, yet I had laid all my thoughts bare to the woman in front of me.
“Well, Mr. Wager, you told me what your mother did and how it affected you. However, you haven’t told me what you want or expect out of this.”
An unreasonable request. I was unsure what I was expecting myself. I thought that was your job?
“…I want you to tell me what was wrong with her,” I said finally.
“And if I gave it a name?”
“Then… I’d know it wasn’t me. That it wasn’t my fault.”
“A diagnosis couldn’t prove that, Mr. Wager.”
A rage welled up within me, and I rose so fast that the chair beneath me fell to the floor. I spewed every kind of insult at her. She threatened to call security, and, with resentment, I stormed out of that office. I knew there was nothing good waiting for me there. I couldn’t help but grumble all the way home. That meeting had taken everything out of me, and, upon arriving home, I collapsed into bed and tried to sleep. However, I was so incredibly agitated that I could do nothing but squirm until morning.
Days passed, and the agitation never left me. I still felt this impossible, incurable rage. What was worse, the pain in my neck refused to leave me. I thought about my own story and the therapist’s words. I had promised I would never smoke or drink. However, one night, I found myself stumbling to the convenience store in a terrible, desperate frenzy. I brought home a case of beer and a pack of cigarettes. Even this would not make me anything like my mother.
I opened a bottle and, with some hesitation, drank. It was a disgusting, sickening taste that did nothing but remind me of my mother. However, it was strangely comforting, and a warm sensation overwhelmed me. Before I knew it, I had gone through three bottles of beer. The relief did not last. Suddenly, I felt as though I was truly worthless—the same worthlessness I had felt as I listened to my mom having sex in the old complex.
Slamming my fist on the kitchen counter, I picked up one of the many cigarettes I had spread across the top of the microwave. I eyed it suspiciously and with great anxiety; however, I lit one and tried my best to smoke. My head clouded, yet my feeling of worthlessness did not subside. If there was anything I regretted from my childhood, it was that I didn’t kill my mother that night. A rage overtook me, and I couldn’t help but throw the microwave to the floor in a fit. It made a loud bang, leaving a noticeable dent in the kitchen tiles.
I was so enraged that I couldn’t even speak. I opened my mouth to scream, to let out my anger, and nothing but a shy squeal escaped my throat. A new feeling overcame me in that moment, and, in exhaustion and defeat, I lay face-first on the couch. I cursed myself to sleep.
I woke some hours later to the ringing of my cellphone. I had five missed calls, all from someone I recognized. It was a work friend of mine. She had asked me to come visit some time ago; apparently, she needed someone to talk to. My head was so cloudy that I could hardly think straight; however, I decided to text her, asking if she still needed company. Sometime later, I got a text back. She said yes.
In no time at all, I arrived at her small apartment. She ushered me in quietly, as her child was sleeping. It wasn’t anything I wasn’t used to by then—we had known each other for two years. The two of us sat on the couch, and she began talking to me about her stress as a mother. Money. Dealing with a rambunctious little boy. Having ‘no time to herself.’ Things of that nature.
Until then, I had considered our relationship purely platonic. However, my cloudy mind got the better of me, and before I knew it, I was touching her. She voiced her reluctance in a whisper, keeping her voice low so as not to wake her sleeping child. I was persistent. My hands would not stop, and my mouth would not stop saying sweet words of reassurance—things I would never have expected myself to say. Sometimes she withdrew from me or froze at my touch. Despite her continued reluctance, I pressed on until I got what I wanted.
She had this look in her eyes, as though she were a small animal. I found it sinfully attractive and lost myself in it. Before I knew it, I awoke beside her in bed.
The two of us slept until eleven on Friday morning. Neither of us worked that day; however, it was a school day for her child, and she rushed out of the apartment with him. Through the crack in the door, I saw the child peek at me. He looked at me with curious eyes, his mouth agape. Upon meeting my eyes, however, he shied away and hid behind his mother. In that moment, I knew he saw me as someone to fear. Once I was alone, I cursed myself and left her apartment.
The pain continued. Every other day, despite my contempt for myself, I would seek her out. Reluctance and hesitation followed; however, each time, I managed to get what I wanted through sweet words and sneaky hands. I was becoming more confident in doing so, too. I began coming around in the late evenings, in the afternoons, on weekends. Whether her child was home or not, I got what I wanted. Even if it was brief, pursuing my coworker brought me enough relief to replace my smoking and drinking. I was grateful for her; it seemed as though I wasn’t like my mother after all. However, the pain never fully subsided. I knew, deep down in my heart, that this was that damned therapist’s fault. If I saw her again…
A month passed like this. One night, I asked my coworker for time together, and she declined without giving me any real reason. As I looked at the text message, anger welled up inside me. I couldn’t understand. However, I resigned myself to wait for another time, knowing deep down that, eventually, I would get what I wanted.
To my surprise and fury, another chance did not come for an entire week, and one day after work, I had enough. I stormed up to her and asked her what her deal was. She seemed anxious and worried and told me in a hushed voice that she would tell me later. She promised she would text me that night.
After stopping by the convenience store, I went home and indulged in drinking and smoking. I kicked the walls and slammed items to the floor as I waited for that ‘later’ to come. It was the greatest inner turmoil I had ever felt. A few hours passed, and, as I had no idea what to do with myself, I dragged myself to the bathroom in a daze.
I got undressed and stumbled over to the mirror. I wanted to look at myself for some reason—to see what was coming over me, to see what kind of person that therapist had turned me into. What I saw was, without a doubt, a contemptible man. What caught my attention even more was something dark creeping over my shoulder. My heart nearly dropped to my stomach. I vomited into the sink and splashed my face with frigid water, then burning-hot water. Then I looked again.
A black mass, just like my mother’s, was creeping over my shoulder, as though it were shy and using my own body as a shield from my reflection. Slowly, I turned around and looked over my shoulder. It extended down my back.
Before I could think about it, I received a text from my coworker. With a strange excitement, I rushed to the living room and sat down in a chair. I opened the message with a mix of excitement and anxiety, and I saw that she had sent me an image. It was a pregnancy test, reading positive.
I stared at my phone for an hour. Then I opened her contact and blocked her number. I debated moving to a different town; however, I knew I had never told her where I lived. Suddenly, all my agitation was gone.
I went online and submitted nearly one hundred job applications. Then I went to the bathroom, a cigarette in my mouth, and approached the mirror.
Somehow, I had this feeling of certainty, as though I knew exactly what I would see next. A wave of happiness and tranquility came over me at last. The dark mass was gone.
Comments