Control

The only sound that could be heard was the never ending chirping of crickets, the rustling of the too tall grass as it moved with the wind, and the whisper of the running water. The air was heavy with humidity and the night sky seemed higher without the pollution of the neighborhood lights. If Bryce Massett held his breath and kept still, he could swear he didn’t exist; there was nothing but the wind, Willow Creek, and the wildlife that always seemed to find him no matter how invisible he was.

It was the bayou where the seventeen year old felt the most peaceful, felt the safest to be himself. Bryce learned more in that bayou than he had anywhere else. The overgrown grass taught him about loyalty as they covered up the evidence of his anger and strength; the small creek taught him how to move on from painful memories as he rinsed himself in the slightly muddy water; the beaten dirt trail taught him that no matter what he did, he couldn’t run from his problems; and the wildlife taught him about survival and defense. The animals of Willow Creek also taught him how to not be squeamish around blood and gore, and what it felt like to watch a creature die.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, alerting Bryce that he was no longer alone. His fingers wrapped around the rock he kept nearby during these retreats as he held his breath and stilled his body. He found himself hoping that whatever it was wouldn’t notice him. The way the grass stopped moving and the way the air ran stale told Bryce whatever it was, it was dangerous.

He no longer smelt the dry, dusty fresh air. Instead, his nostrils were assaulted with a suffocating fragrance he knew all too well. The rock slipped from his grip just as the would be predator made itself known.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” the sharpness of the voice should have been all the warning he needed.

“Enjoying a fulfilling game of lacrosse, Jesskia.” He sighed, pushing himself to his feet.

The stinging sensation in his cheek made him aware the question had been the warning before the strike.

“How many times have I told you not to disrespect me like that?”

“I’m sorry. I meant that I was enjoying a fulfilling game of lacrosse, Mother.” He corrected with a small eye roll.

“Don’t be a smartass, Bryce.” She hadn’t struck him like he had been expecting. “What have I told you about spending time here?”

“It’s not like anyone saw me.” He sighed as he followed his mother down the path, his gaze trained on the bumpy ground.

“You aren’t as sneaky as you like to think.”

Bryce glanced at her but didn’t ask for an explanation. He gave another eye roll when he heard her begin to go on about respect and image and obedience, and found his mind begin to wander back to his perch at the bayou. He had been hoping to escape the sharp nagging of his mother, but the feel of her nails digging into his forearm prevented the teenager from mentally escaping.

He tripped on a curb as his mother continued to drag him back to the house. Bryce looked around and narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t even realized that they had trekked through the wooded area that separated the neighborhood from Willow Creek.

“What the hell is that?”

He was yanked back just as he went to approach the front door. A wince appeared on his face when he noticed what his mother was staring at. In stark contrast to the off-white of his shoe was a small dark red splatter. He lifted his left hand slightly and saw his hand caked with something he couldn’t identify; dirt and that something packed under his nails.

Bryce thought back to his time at Willow Creek. In his mind, he saw the rabbit that had ventured from the woods come too close to him. He relived the sound of the rock connecting with the small furry skull, the feel of what kept the animal alive was over his left hand, and the sight of the corpse disappearing in the weeds. He hadn’t wanted to cut the rabbit’s life short, but it had just caught Bryce on a bad day.

He looked up at his mother as if he had only just realized she had asked him a question. He curled his hand into a fist and shook his head.

“Nothing. I was just…I was protecting myself.”

Pale green eyes looked at dark ones for a moment. When nothing was said, Bryce started to think that his mother was going to drop the subject. But then her dark eyes flashed with disgust and fury, and the teenager knew he was in for it.

He had just enough time to brace himself for the quick slap.

“Jesus Christ, Bryce. I’ve told you about your nasty hobby.” Her nails bit into his skin as she dragged him into the house. “It’s like you don’t even care that I’ve put in all this effort to build this life for us.”

“You mean lie to everyone?” he yanked his arm out of her grip, ignoring the slight burn from her nails scratching him. “You have everyone believing we’re this perfect family. They don’t buy it, you know? Everyone just thinks you’re a controlling bitch.”

Bryce saw the intention before his mother struck. He ducked under her arm and made a run for his room. He took the stairs two at a time and rushed down the hall towards the temporary safe haven of his bedroom. The slam of the door briefly drowned out his mother’s voice.

“Bryce, open this door!”

The pounding started right as he leant against the wooden barrier. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, imagining he was back at Willow Creek. His mother’s faded into the ambient noise of his sanctuary, his frustration leaving him as he pictured the bayou. The rattling of his doorknob reached his ears, and in his mind he saw a snake slither along the dirt in his direction.

The copper of the scales reminded Bryce all too much of his mother’s hair. He stared into the black pools where its eyes should have been as he watched it draw closer to him. There was the promise of attack hugging the copperhead as it slithered to him. He felt his heart bang against his chest as he thought over his options. He wanted to strike before he was attacked but something held him back.

Just as suddenly as the serpent appeared in his mind, it disappeared. Bryce opened his eyes once he registered that his mother was no longer banging on the other side of the door. She was still there; he could hear her breathing.

“Open the door, Bry.” Her voice was soft, almost as if she hoped to make up for the yelling by using this motherly tone.

He stared at the diagram of a dissected cat that hung on his wall, hoping he could wait out his mother’s cajoling pleas. If he could wait her out then he wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that he gave into her. Yet again.

“Bryce, please.” His mother had always been persistent. “I didn’t mean to overreact to you being in the bayou, sweetie.”

It was the pet name that broke his resolve. There was something about the stupid pet names that always made him bend to her wishes. It was almost as if the nicknames reminded him that he was all his mother had left.

Bryce sighed and slowly stood up. He opened the door and gave his mother an apologetic smile. She reached out and smoothed back the dirty blonde hair, rubbing at a smudge of dirt on his cheek.

“Go wash up and I’ll get dinner started. Then we’ll go over why your behavior is unacceptable.”

“Yes, Mother.” He said softly before trudging to the bathroom to do as he had been ordered.

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The next day, Bryce rushed down the street. He had about an hour before his mother got home and he planned on using that time to read his books. It wasn’t that he wasn’t allowed to read, quite the opposite actually. His mother encouraged him to read, said that it showed the community what a wonderful boy he was. But there was a major difference between his desired reading material, and his mother’s desired reading material.

She wanted Bryce to read literary classis and Shakespeare and classic poetry, and he did. He could recite Shakespeare and quote passages from most novels he had read, but it was all to please his mother. She wanted him to be the ideal son, and he made that happen as much as he could.

But it was the stolen moments when he could be himself that got him through it. Moments like when he had the house to himself and he could read his books, the ones about serial killers and dissection and how long it took a body to decompose. His fascination with death and gore and all things morbid was another thing he wasn’t allowed to indulge.

Bryce rolled his eyes at the thought of his mother trying to shape him into a perfect person with no odd fancy. He entered his house and threw himself on to the couch, his backpack falling to the floor. The teenager took a few moments to enjoy the quiet before he reached for his bag, fumbling with the zipper to retrieve his books. He had read some of the book about autopsies and while he wanted to know more about how one went about removing organs and making precise incisions, the book about Jack the Ripper called to him.

He set the autopsy and taxidermy books on the floor and kicked off his shoes. He settled into the couch and took in what he could of the unknown Whitechapel district killer. He ate up the accounts of how each victim was found and what had been done to them; he studied the pictures of each corpse, memorizing where the damage had been done; and he formed his own theories about who the Ripper was and why his victims had been specifically prostitutes. As he read the book, he found himself re-reading the description of the murders. That was the most interesting part of his books on serial killers- the way the victims were murdered and the descriptions of the wounds were the most fascinating tidbits of information.

The sound of his stomach growling brought Bryce out of the trance the book’s words had put him under. He glanced at his watch and decided he had enough time to grab a snack before hiding his books. He set the book on the coffee table and got to his feet. He made his way to the kitchen and towards the fridge, hoping the snack he had hidden the day before was still there.

“Damn it!” he growled once the fridge was open.

The small slice of cake he had holed away was missing. In its place was a bowl of assorted fruits and some celery, a note attached to the bowl. Bryce gritted his teeth as he ripped the note from the plastic. He read the written reprimand from his mother and felt his irritation and anger build as he took in the evidence that his mother was ruling all aspects of his life.

The fridge door slammed as the note crumpled in his fist. He went to the pantry and opened it up. Once again, the teenager was met with nothing but healthy food. And taped to the middle shelf was another note reminding him that he should eat only natural foods.

“Natural, healthy foods mean you’ll live a good life.” He read in a mocking voice, rolling his eyes as he closed the pantry. “It’s a wonder I’m not malnourished with no food in the house.”

He sighed and leaned against the pantry as he thought over his options for food. He figured eating fruit was better than nothing, and was making his way back to the fridge when he heard the front door closing.

“Shit.”

There was no way he could make it to the living room and hide his books before his mother reached them. He couldn’t even imagine what the consequence would be when those books were found. Bryce could already feel the stinging from the physical strikes his mother would most likely give him. As soon as he had felt the phantom strings, he heard the sharp, quick clicks of his mother’s high heels coming towards him.

“Please tell me these aren’t what I think they are.” Her voice was measured, and he could just hear the fury bubbling under the surface.

“They aren’t what you think they are.” He said simply.

He watched the play of emotions on her face, noticed how rage battled with disgust as she looked at his books. She settled for rage as the books dropped to her side.

“This type of content is unacceptable, Bryce.” Her voice wasn’t loud but the teenager could still hear the power driving her tone.

“If it’s unacceptable, then why do people write them? They have to be acceptable if people are writing them, Mother.”

“Don’t you get smart with me, young man. You know perfectly well why this type of filth is not allowed.” She waved the books around, almost as if she was baiting him to grab them from her. “What would the neighbors say if they knew about your disgusting habits?”

“Jesus Christ, that is all you care about!” he yelled. He could feel his frustration and anger boiling up. “I can’t eat anything that isn’t natural or organic. I can’t read what I want to read. I can’t watch TV. I can’t do anything I want to! It’s all about you want.”

“That is not true, Bryce.”

“Yes it is! You never bought a television set so I couldn’t be distracted from school. You push all this boring reading material on me so I can seem scholarly, or some shit. You make me be involved in the community and school. You make me do all this so we seem like the fucking Cleavers!” he stalked up to his mother and stared at her. “You are so worried about trying to force me to be perfect that you miss how imperfect I am.”

They stared at each other and all Bryce could think of was a copperhead warning him to back down, or be attacked. He had seen the warning signs and paid no attention as he provoked the serpent. He wasn’t going to let the snake keep him from continuing down the path he wanted.

“I’m not perfect, and neither are you.” He said evenly, wanting to make his point clear. “And the fact that you think you are just makes you a joke, Jesskia.”

The slap came before he could blink and if it weren’t for the throbbing in his cheek, he would have thought it hadn’t happened. The cold look in his mother’s eyes told him she wasn’t done. Without a word, his mother turned on her heel and made her way out of the kitchen. It was the muttered words of “need to get rid of the filth” that got Bryce following her.

“What are you doing?” he asked when she walked into his room. “Jesskia!”

He watched her tear down the dissection and anatomy diagrams, watched her find all his hidden books, watched her smash all the animal skeletons he had assembled, watched her destroy the things that made him up. It was only when everything was scattered across the floor that he felt her eyes on him.

“Clearly letting you decorate your room had been a mistake. It’s obvious that by allowing this small liberty of owning impurities it hasn’t gotten it out of your system like I had hoped.”

“Fuck you.” Bryce growled before turning around.

He stormed down the stairs and towards the front door. He broke into a run when he heard his mother call after him. He ran to the only place he felt safe, knowing he could lose her at Willow Creek. Bryce ran along the dirt path until his veins were pumping battery acid and his lungs were on fire. He ducked into the grass and closed his eyes, taking in the fresh air as he tried to calm his breathing.

The sound of the grass rustling alerted him to another presence, and the hair on the back of his neck standing at attention told him the presence meant trouble. He tried to keep his breathing even, but the simple task was made difficult by the jackhammer that was his heart. The sound was coming closer and he was sure it was one of the copperheads that settled along the bayou. After all, no one ever walked willingly into the waist high grass.

Bryce groped around for a rock. He needed to take care of this treat fast; there was no good in worrying about being struck by both the snake and his mother. His fingers brushed the jagged outline of his prize and he quickly grabbed it, making sure his grip was perfect. No sooner had his fingers closed on the rock did his instincts tell him to strike before he was struck.

Eyes closed, he brought the object down on his target. Over and over again he connected the rock with the venomous creature. In his mind he saw the dark red liquid stain the ground, the grass, the rock, and his fingers; saw the light leave the dark pits for eyes as he smashed the skull. It wasn’t until he heard the last of the death rattle that he stopped his attack.

When his eyes opened, the rock dropped and confusion fell over him. There was no copperhead, just the body of his mother covered in blood and bruises. In a moment of morbid contemplation, Bryce couldn’t help but notice that this was the most beautiful his mother had ever looked. Shaking his head to clear the thought, he left her body to be hidden in the grass; he knew the grass would keep this secret, much like it kept the secret of the wildlife that had fallen prey to his rage.

There was a jump in his step as he made his way back to his house, unphased that he had splatters of his mother’s blood on him. His mind began planning his future- he would wash up, pack a bag with clothes, grab what money he could find, pack another bag with things he could sell, and then his mind went blank. He narrowed his eyes as tried to make a plan. He could do whatever he wanted now, be who he wanted, and yet he had no idea what to do.

His feet stopped moving once he was inside the house. All he knew was what his mother told him to do. Yes he always had plans of his own, but they suddenly seemed unappealing without his mother’s commands to rebel against. Bryce looked down at his blood-covered hand and the joy of his newfound freedom was replaced by a crippling sense of hopelessness and no direction.

Knowing exactly what his mother would make him do, Bryce walked to the living room phone and dialed the three numbers that were engraved in his memory. He stared at a photograph of him and his mother as the connection was trying to be made.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator picked up on the third ring.

“I’d like to report a murder I committed at 8931 Sunny Point Drive.” He said calming before hanging up.

The seventeen year old walked to the stairs and sat on the second step, ignoring the ringing of the phone. He didn’t need to talk to the operator as she tried to stall him from taking off; he had no plans of running. He would wait for the police to show up and find him splattered in blood. He would tell them what happened and show them where his mother’s body was. And when he was asked why he did it, Bryce would tell them the truth.

“I wanted to show her that she couldn’t control me.”