Stunned wouldn’t be the word I’d use upon the presence of my proclaimed ‘mother’. I was weary, and unsurprisingly so. Her face was unfamiliar, unrecognizable. Mary’s voice was cheerful in its own right, she offered her hand and fluttered her lashes expectantly as she called my name.
“Michael,” She smiled, “You’ve grown so big, my son.”
There hadn’t been an apology. Okay, no apologies. But I wasn’t disappointed. Disappointment required expectation and I currently had none. Mary and I started to live together in an old house filled heavily with the scent of lavenders. “What should I make for dinner, Mikey? Is there anything you’d like?”
My mother’s voice was sickly sweet, with a quipped and quick “Cook whatever you want.” I excused myself from the first floor and moved to the second where I was introduced to as my new room. Like the rest of the house, it was filled with the thick scent of lavender. There was no bed, only a simple desk and chair accompanied by a wooden wardrobe.
The wardrobe had some blankets inside which I laid on the floor for comfort. Mary came up to call myself for dinner several hours later. It was a simple meal; I thought nothing of it.
I adapted to the new life, the new housemate, and new school without difficulty. Life wasn’t much different from the other, I still walked soundlessly and drank in tiny amounts. Mary had a tendency to ask my opinion for every little bit. She’d make it a point to share the same room as I; the smile never left her face.
She always made the same thing for every meal- breakfast, lunch and dinner.
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Mary sat by her mother’s favourite couch, her arms were crossed and her eyes steady. It was late and Michael had yet to return by her side. An irrational fear took Mary by the neck, the creak of the front door was loud, it took less than a minute on foot to ‘greet’ him.
Time went by in a flurry of seconds, Michael was on the floor- and she sat on top of me. “How could you?!” She screeched, her nails scratched my face from a slap uncalled for; I bled. “You were going to leave again, were you?! I won’t allow it. You’ll be with me forever and ever and ever. I don’t have my parents anymore; I don’t have anyone!” Mary’s nails grip into the tender flesh of my face. Her eyes widened when my blood hit the floor, she went still.
Mary buried her face into my shoulder and breathed in deeply, burying her face in the nook of my collarbone.
A beat.
“You were late, Mikey. What would you like for dinner?”
The act wasn’t reserved only to that night. Instead, it’d repeat itself; over and over again before silent apologies that she’d say in replacement as kind- sometimes unsettling- lip service.
“Mum didn’t mean it, Mikey. Does it hurt? Come, let me see.”
“This wouldn’t have happened if you called me. I only want you to be safe. You must understand.”
“Don’t come back late again, okay? I worry for you.”
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In a rewind of time, Mary had finally accepted the cruelty that comes with life when she returned for her son long neglected.
She recalled being before her parent’s grave, due in just a few months before she bore the child of a man she barely knew but loved either way. Her father has often told her to keep her heart close and she had. All this while, she had.
But the same father had also told her to love, and never hate. For love was strong, just and it existed in everyone as they all deserved it. Movies built unrealistic expectations, Mary knew. But still, it was her mother to repeat quite often to treasure herself; and when she did give herself to a man, have him treasure her too. For she was so much more, mother’s most beautiful, beautiful, most precious little girl. Many contradictions came by throughout Mary’s life. Whereupon ideals clashed, some didn’t make sense. The blend of illusion and reality started to crack, a shard at a time. It was a pity. Mary doubted. Deep in her heart somewhere, but she’d make sure nobody knew. She promised to hide the doubt, even if it was from herself.
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Somehow, she did. And perhaps it was the unknowing fear to have disappointed her mother that Mary became so needy, desperate for stability after life’s rollercoaster drop. All to have her parents worry less to smile a number more.
But-
Ever since that day, Mary couldn’t stand the sight or scent of alcohol. Just like her son- she felt glad then.
Ever since that day, beds did not exist in the fabricated world Mary cooped herself in- she was in denial then.
Ever since the abandonment of Michael, Mary took pills doctors said would help. She was also in no condition to raise a child. She had been more accepting of the advice than her past self would’ve been. A single belief kept Mary patient for an impatient time that ran too fast. ‘It will be alright,’ her mind would sooth. ‘You’re doing fine, doing good and everything will be all right. You're just leaving him for a while. He'll be fine without you. It'd be hard for Micahel too if you can't be there for him in every way. ’
It is in the same positive mindset that Mary held on to whenher company crashed; before she met Justin with the boyish grin and charm she still remembered fondly.
Alas, to her defence in the afterlife, the reason she (really) left her son all these while is that she knew herself cowardly. And cowards often ran from their problems, the ones she knew she’d somehow never solve no matter what.
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A letter came in when her son- when I turned eighteen. I was prepared. Rather, in preparation for college.
The letter was an invitation meant for my mother. I had lived with her for three years and her tantrums failed to change in its content. Her concern and love only turned more intense as she’d wail before my front door and scratch at the wood like some lost child. Those were the moments her breathing escalated, eyes shut tight as she’d curl into a ball. I’d comfort her, and Mary would smile a smile as bright as a falling star.
I passed the envelop to Mary while she tended to her garden full of Lavenders. “Thank you.” She said as I nodded in reply.
I’d passed the teenage phase full of melancholy and anger. I now felt calm and no more stable.
Mary opened her envelope containing a single invitation to a funeral and another blank, but folded piece of thick paper. She flicked the first folded paper open, ‘For Mary’ The front read. The crème coloured paper reminded me of the complexion of an uncle I’d long buried. Mother bit her lip till it stained a cherry red; I watched her as she grits her teeth; and blinked as I saw tears travel down her face in the speed of a carousel I saw once on television.
‘To Mary,
Thanks for the kiss, I’ve remembered it always.
Yours truly,
Samantha.'
Mother slumped to her knees.
I read the other piece of folded paper in the envelope. Samantha- a name I did not recognise- died by suicide it seemed. Via hanging, ‘she hung from the roof, a limp and cut-off marionette. Cuts on her wrist suggested self-harm etc.’
Some people were disturbed these days.
We were left a will by Mother’s- I’d assume– friend. She left a single property, alongside money. She had little, but her existence seemed to mean a lot for my mother.
It was that night I heard the unsual sound of solid footsteps come up to my room. The door creaked open, a ray of light from the corridor shined in. The slender figure I’ve come to love in my own peculiar way had a thick, rough rope curled around her arms and wrist. My mother mumbled an eternal string of “IMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRYIMSOSORRYMIKEY…” as she tightened the rope around my neck almost tenderly.
I couldn’t breathe, my arms reached for Death itself as it amplified in a torturous speed and pressure. I tug at it but the oxygen was quick into leaving my lungs as my brain flickered in and out of consciousness. My lungs bloomed with an indescribable burn. My mouth was wide upon as Mary forced down a scented pill down my throat. It tasted of decaying flowers; Mary lifted her arms, face full of sorrowful tears- always crying, always so selfish and needy till the very end, my only family.
Mother forced a final smile- it was a broken thing- a gun she managed to flick to her wrist. It was pointed to her head, “We’ll be together forever, okay Justin? I’ll even let you meet my parents… and your son too.” It is in a voice-cracking whisper as her free hand’s nails imbeds themselves into my face a final time. The scratch was deep. Full of hate and sadness.
Had she killed Justin like this, too?
A resounding ‘bang’ had the neighbours startled.
Thus, my death and hers and Samantha’s were painted a crimson red. And what about Justin? Jack? I learnt that they were only God in a skilful disguise.