Cold, rainy day. I am downstairs, preparing my mother’s breakfast. She must be up by now.
Ever since my father left, it was only just the two of us in this household. I am proud to say that she has nurtured me and molded me to be a fine and decent lady.
I went upstairs to bring her breakfast. You see, my mother grew old and weak. I am here to take care of her; make sure she’s relaxed and carefree.
“It took you long to prepare a simple breakfast?” she asked with conviction.
“Sorry, Mom,” I replied. “Need anything else?”
She looked at her window and said,
“Play some music.”
I went to the player and put the CD with a compilation of Chopin’s pieces. I turned the volume a bit higher so I can hear it downstairs. I took my leave and left the door half closed.
As the first notes started to play, my head started to hurt. I was already in the kitchen when I felt the need to grab onto something to balance myself. As the music plays, memories started to flood through my mind. My headache eased up a bit, but the memories continued.
I was a kid, around seven-years-old. I was trying to get the caterpillar barely hanging on a leaf on our neighbor’s front garden. When I finally had it in my hands, I rushed home to show it to my mom. I regret taking it home with me. I saw how my mother took the life out of that poor caterpillar.
“Mommy! Teacher said we need to wait for caterpillar to become a beautiful butterfly!”
She looked at me with disbelief and slapped me hard enough to lose my balance. She pulled my hair and dragged me to the kitchen sink.
“I told you to go home as soon as you can and clean this mess you made this morning. Now, do it!”
There were memories of me during my teenage years. She caught me trying to escape and tell the police, or probably the neighbors, about how she abuses me. She took me back and gave me painful lessons not to do it again. Whips, slaps, and kicks. I was begging for mercy, begging for life, and begging for tender love.
I strengthened myself up and shook my head slightly. I tried to get a glass of water for myself, hoping it might help. Thoughts started circling my head. What are those? Are those my memories? Did my mom really hurt me that way? But, I love her. She loves me. We are happy here, right now. Me and my mother living peacefully in our house enjoying music and bonding like there is no tomorrow. That must have been some kind of a bad dream I am starting to remember, right? Mom will never lay a finger on me.
“I am tired of looking at your face. I don’t want to see you.” I heard my mom said, and it felt like years ago.
A tear fell from my eye. My, my mother is tired. So, I see it now. I am a burden to her.
I took the kitchen knife and went silently upstairs. There, I saw my dear mother, sitting easy on her rocking chair, looking out the window. She seems to enjoy the raindrops falling down the window panes. I went closer until I am behind her. I leaned down to her ear and whispered,
“Rest in peace, Mom.” and quickly slit her throat before she could respond.
I have never felt so happy. I took her burdens away. She is now relaxed, asleep, free.
Fresh blood is gushing out of her throat. I hugged her from the back and rubbed our cheeks together. Her blood is flowing through my hands. I chuckled and hugged her tighter.
“Oh, Mom. Even when you’re dead, I still feel your warmth.”
Mom really loves me.
Chopin’s Nocturne continued to play as I embrace my beloved mother’s lifeless body, as it slowly lost its warmth.
Enjoy reading this while listening to this song!
Featured image from YouTube