writing from
Scars Publications

Audio/Video chapbooks cc&d magazine Down in the Dirt magazine books

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the
108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book

Flawed Cadaver
cc&d, v278
(the December 2017 issue)

Order this as a 6"x9" paperback book:
order ISBN# book


Flawed Cadaver

Order this writing
in the issue book
Language of
Untamed Spirit

the cc&d
Sept.-Dec.2017
collection book
Language of Untamed Spirit cc&d collectoin book get the 4 page
May-August 2017
cc&d magazine
issue collection
6" x 9" ISBN#
paperback book:

order ISBN# book

Kill Mother

    “Pain cannot adequately be taught. To articulate it with clarity, it needs be experienced”

CAG

    Such a surprise. Over the past three years I learned that losing one’s grip on reality is seldom a sudden occurrence; rather it is sly, insidious and subtle. Not at all like pulling a light cord from a convenient wall socket, one moment on, the next off. No, no, it is gradual, not an immediate transition from light to darkness.
    Certainly not as I expected.
    It gains a foothold with enticing kaleidoscope rainbow colors, while life stretches the sanity membrane like a soft string of taffy. Finally thin and pliable it makes that irreversible turn at the corner of lucidity. Once around that fateful bend it is them, ‘all the world’ which changes. ‘They’ become the threat.
    This then became my haven of in—sanity. Deep within is brilliance turned inside out, raw as searing white hot pain, the sound of screaming without a voice, while drowning in this sea of air, everyone is staring, but nothing to be heard.
    Much like the hapless traveler alighting from a Tokyo airport tram in dead of night who finds he is deposited amongst beings with whom he cannot communicate. All directional signs are unintelligible characters, and he is the only person without black hair. He has landed in an alien world with no discernable rules, a world of unfathomable yet hysterical madness.

. . . . . . . . .


    You knew it . . . earlier tonight I should have gone straight home to bed. Rainy night, drip, drippity-drop on the roof top. Rainy nights always the best to fall asleep dreaming of strangling my cat. Feline, female . . . all the same.
    Besides, it had been an exhausting second week with my new employer, a job I landed with a local defense contractor. Actually the first ‘real job’ I’d been able to secure since graduating USC over three years ago. For me, tonight was another Thank God It’s Friday.

. . . . . . . . .


    Yet here we sit in the living room, listening to rain, swirling in gusts against the window pane.
    Less than an hour ago I cooked our dinner and we finished eating her favorite . . . spaghetti. My dear little sweetie turned three just two weeks ago, and sitting opposite me that little joy with those chubby legs sits bouncing in her chair, her light blue dress nearly matching her beautiful blue eyes, while engrossed in her picture book.
    “Daddy, what’s this,” she asked, and I got up to look over and reply.
    “A green alligator sweetie, but they live far away across the country in a Florida swamp, maybe not here with us.”

. . . . . . . . .


    Finishing work late this afternoon I succumbed to an incessant compulsion, the one I could not put to rest; go pick my daughter up from preschool. The compulsion brought on by that ‘God Damn’ judges restraining order yesterday. Think about it. Her first three years I . . . I had been both mom and her dad . . . I her only one. Now at all cost I needed to assert myself, as my manhood lay shattered, all in wreckage.
    I accomplished my mission before my wife could arrive there from USC’s Med Center across town. Driving in this drizzly weather I could not forget she always was a cautious driver, especially on rain wet streets.
    Surely the preschool headmaster did not give a second thought. He who was faced with the crush of parents arriving all at once, as rain began in earnest. And how quickly he recognized me, waving ‘hallo’ at the familiar face of her father, as she flew into my arms crying ‘Daddy - daddy’.
    With a broad triumphant grin, off we drove.
    Of course headmaster was not yet aware of the court restraining order. The order requiring me to stay away from both of them. Best of all, yesh best of all, her mom had no idea where I lived, she knew not of our whereabouts. We were totally isolated from her authority.
    Yeaahhh! . . . chalk one up for me, I beat her on this one.
    Yes, yesh.
    Checkmate!

. . . . . . . . .


    Barbara, Barbara, mother’s name. Why my wife named our little daughter after mother, when the most casual observer would have concluded they were not friends? No surprise. Mother seldom came to visit, and we had never visited her here at home . . . that is before her commitment to the psycho ward. Did jealousy drive her there?
    Yet tonight . . . everything so familiar. I feel her presence. Mother’s photo smiling down from the mantel. Her thrift-store perfume in the air, or perhaps my memory.
    And now . . . sweetie and I have the house, ‘all to ourselves’.
    Must be an ‘Amber Alert’ on every freeway overpasses describing my silver BMW.
When I parked in the garage I even left my cell in the car. Now its constant pinging can only respond taking messages.
    A feeling of satisfaction settled over me, one of sexual arousal, of mastering my own destiny. A feeling of finally, finally getting even with that son—, or ‘daughter-of-a-bitch’. Three years of psychological dominance and sexual deprivation. But now I had her. Let her experience my agony. Yes, yesh the thought of her horrified face looking . . . looking, frantically seeking but nothing to see, it put a smile in my minds eye and one on my face.
    Vengeance?
    Perhaps.
    But how did I ever come to be married, and have such a beautiful child of my own?
    A mystery I could never unravel.
    Think mon, think.
    No, no more memories. Hadn’t I suffered enough at the hands of insanity?

. . . . . . . . .


    My wife, God bless her shriveled soul, obtained her masters in psychotherapy.
    We met right here in L.A. during our respective masters programs at the University of Southern California, she in psychology and mine in physics. She was the cutest friend I’d made in a long while, and perhaps with my tall dark brooding appearance and skewed perspective of women, I presented a challenge. She had certainly ratcheted up my sexual desires with her free adventuresome spirit. Upon graduation her application was accepted into a residency program at USC’s Med Center. And once we discovered she was pregnant, off we sped to Vegas for a quickie wedding. All while I still sought employment that never came. There was an oversupply of graduates with my same degree, and my grades were less than spectacular, I was at the bottom of my class; no distinction.
     Before I realized what happened, I was house-mom, and my wife our bread winner. It wasn’t long before this became a discarded cold damp condom on our relationship. Nights spent sleeping next to the warm flesh of a live female, yet one with constant nightly headaches, only inflamed my desires as I caught the scent of her sex spot.

. . . . . . . . .


    Glancing at our daughter across the room I thought, her mom must be going crazy-nuts with worry by now, and a smile creased my face, followed by uncontrollable and hysterical laughter booming throughout the house. I hadn’t laughed so hard since I set my cousin Margie’s hair on fire. With the back of my hand swiping tears from my cheek, I further loosening my shirt and tie. Stretching out my legs my tired head lolled back on the couch. I began drifting off, a solid erection building in my slacks with the thought of her mom’s terrified face.

. . . . . . . . .


    Childish laughter roused me . . . at first not recognizing. Where am I?
    In my drowsy state I had seen myself, aged fifteen again invited into mom’s bedroom just down the hall from where we sit tonight. Mother would ever so slowly and seductively undress dropping her skirt, blouse, bra, and panties, until my awareness was protruding through my underwear.
    “Wow, look at you,” she’d exclaim with a sly impish grin.
    “Now go on back to your own room sweety, before we’re both in trouble.”
    For her, I was ‘sweety’, and she shooed me back to my own room. Closing my door I stepped out of my under shorts and admired my full erection in the wall mirror.
    Using the hand-dance passed down by males over the last one hundred-thousand years, I brought myself to exhausted satisfaction. Tho on many occasions her cunning smile peeked around my bedroom door, checking to see I was still awake, and with a broad wink of one eye she’d tiptoe in to performed her striptease until stark naked. Then throwing my covers aside to see my erection producing a sheet tent, she’d reach beneath wrapping her hand around her sweety’s hardness. She’d perform an up and down motion of pure ecstasy until I was totally relieved. Thanks mother.

. . . . . . . . .


    Whhaaat . . . fully waking . . . what was my little sweetie laughing about?
    It was my fish tank. The one mother bought me years back.
    Since two months old, ‘my sweetie’ was fascinated by my multicolored collection of tropical fish. She could spend long moments watching them dart here and there, laughing at their seriousness.
    Can’t let those nasty boys put their filthy hands on her, their desperate drooling mouths and lustful eyes, as she lets them run their dirty fingers up her legs beneath her dress to where legs meet her soft wet spot.

. . . . . . . . .


    Again dozing off I thought, where was the beginning of it all?
    Shortly after my sixth birthday father suddenly died leaving us with a house, a car, some money in the bank, and mother seven months pregnant with my sis. When she was born, sis never had had a chance to know our dad, but as she lay so helpless in her baby crib I thought to myself, now being man of the house, her six year old big brother will be her father/protector.
    For our benefit, it should have been our mother who died and our father who survived.
    Each Friday night she drove my sister and I to be deposited in the inner-city with our grandmother where her alcoholic and abusive brother lived. She did this so that with no handicap she could go out and screw everyone in sight that she could dredge up over a weekend, all under the pretense of finding a father for her two fatherless kids. Irony was that most of them were just this side of qualifying ‘skid-row homeless’, and without exception hated kids. Mother never sold herself, she gave it away to all comers, she had become the truest meaning of the word ‘whore’.
    For sis and I, our young existence was a ripe garbage dump, the contents of a stinking sewer, but as kids will do we survived.

. . . . . . . . .


    Remembering back . . . one night riding our bikes through darkened neighborhood streets, my buddy Timothy and I were out ‘Peeping Tom’ at lighted bathroom windows, hoping to spy a lady in the tub or shower. No such luck tonight, so with school the next day we split up.
    Had to be not much later than ten when I stepped upon our front porch and inserting my key in the door lock I walked in as I’d done on hundreds of past occasions. There on the couch was mother with her dress scrunched up around her neck and her latest boyfriend’s pants at his ankles as they went at it.
    Of course they jumped up and blamed me for barging in.
    What? I hadn’t done anything different than on any other night or day.
    But by then all respect for mom was long dead, she had become an insult to the memory of our father. Seeds of sickness were nurtured, festering, lurking in my subconscious . . . Kill Mother.

. . . . . . . . .


    Outside our windows the storm persisted, with a lightning bolt strike so close — immediately followed by a clap of thunder shaking those same windows.
    Whoa!
    All lights went out and sweetie rushed to my arms in the sudden dark crying
    “Daddy - Daddy!”
     I could not see her.
    What were my fingers grasping?
    “Barbara? . . . mother — is that you?”
    Grabbing her soft throat squeezing, squeezing, squeezing so hard my thumbs could feel my fingers at the back of her neck. Those bad boys won’t ever get to touch you.
    “Mother . . . motherrrrrrr”, still squeezing so hard my orgasm came and my shaky legs felt warm wetness inside my pants.
    Another lightning flash and her blue eyes popped like ripe grapes.
    Her struggling stopped as she stilled in my shaking arms.
    “Now sweetie, see what? I’ve saved us both, you’ll never lose your virginity.”
    Yech, what stinks?
    Her panties. Dirty!
    What to do?
    Have to get rid of it.
    I tossed away this limp blue rag still in my quaking grasp.
    “Yesh!” The fish . . . the fish!
    Outside under the sewer manhole cover in the middle of our street the storm drain led to the ocean and the fish she loved so much.
    As kids we’d try and pry it open to drop in dead kittens, but for kids, that iron cover lay wayyy too heavy.
    In the dark feeling my way to the back door, I rushed out through pouring rain to the garage and my Beemer. I could see my cell lying on the front seat its blinking red dot alerting me to voice mail. Hah-ha, forget it. Opening the drivers door I needed to pop the trunk lid and grab my tire iron.
    Intense rain was coming in sheets as I slogged back to reentered the house, dripping, shaking and soaking wet. With my heel kicking the door shut behind I felt my way in darkness to reach mother’s now silent living room.
    Where was it? Did I trip over something at my feet? A crumpled throw rug?
    Where had she gotten to? I dropped to my knees searching the darkness.
    Another flash of lightning reflected in her protruding blue eyes as she awkwardly leaned towards me on the floor, propped against the couch where I had tossed her.
    Yikes!
    I jumped away.
    Scrambling to my feet with tire-iron grasped in one hand, I grabbed up this soiled limp rag-doll, dangling it by one plump leg and went out the front door slamming it closed.
    The sewer manhole cover wasn’t directly in front, but lay in the center of our street just before the rise. Jamming my tire-iron into the notch on the edge of the shiny wet cover I pried it open a foot or more. Deep inside I could hear rushing storm waters.
    Lowering my sweetie, then dropping plop, for her to flush to the fishies far at sea.
    Can’t wait to tell her mom ‘go fishing’; and see if she can reel her back in.

. . . . . . . . .


    Whaaa . . . ? an oncoming car splashing towards me.
    Turning I began to stand just as my right foot slipped on the wet steel rim and the iron cover crashed down trapping my ankle. Over the rise in the roadway headlights and flashing red were barreling down through torrential rain. Staggering up on my one free leg, arms flailing, my right foot still held pinned in the jaws of the sewer cover. The police car with mom inside had no time to react, the impact so severe it wrenched me out of my steel trap, sending me sailing across the roadway. Last sound was the man-hole cover clanking solidly back into place, as my head smashed into the corner light standard like a splattering egg.
    Bye-bye sweetie, bye sweety.



Scars Publications


Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.




Problems with this page? Then deal with it...