Mommy's Boy

Under his mother's thumb from the day, he is born. Mark, a 45-year-old man who still resides at his parent's home. He never knew his father. That man fled when Mark was born. His father was incapable of understanding his wife's mental state, and he could not cope with such a responsibility. She is eight months pregnant and bipolar, and her moods can be very Jekyll and Hyde. One minute nice, the next evil. And, because of the stress, his father dated different women behind Mary's back. When she found out about his additional lovers, she flew at him with a knife. Finally, the family physician, Dr. Brown, admitted Mary into a Mental institution, where she gave birth to Mark. The child's life commenced in foster homes until she is deemed suitable.

As Mary recuperates, Dr. Brown evaluates that she is a stable person for raising a child through high consideration, she leaves the institute.

Mark spent his years adhering to his mother's conflicting impulses. Throughout his adult life, he never dared meet or date women. However, mark loved his mother dearly. He could not leave her, especially on her good days.

He knew when a bad episode was nearing because the insults would escalate. At these times, to his mother, Mark is a fat, pock-marked, greasy-haired, dark-eyed freak that sponges off her and lives in her basement.

Although he resented the constant nasty remarks, like calling him a freak and fat, which he hated, she was his mother at the end of the day and did not know any better.

Growing up in this manner, Mark lived on a knife-edge, not knowing which mode his mother was in currently. The only indication that her mood transformed showed in her expressions. Her complexion would go pale in colour—the unusual change in her eyes from blue to grey in a matter of seconds, and the brows would almost meet. When this happened, as a child, he would run and hide. As an adult, he would get in his car and drive.

The constant fluctuations of her moods played on his mental health, making him somewhat unstable. He could lose his temper at the drop of a hat.

Mary, in her day, made sure that all eyes would be on her. By outshining other women with her film star looks. Her idol is Marylin Monroe, and she would dress and apply identical makeup, copying her favourite film star. Even her name, Mary, was part of Marylin. Her effervescent personality and her killer figure helped start conversations with men from the moment she walked into a room. Women loathed her. Men adored her.

On days out shopping with his mother, Mark, as a child, would witness men's reactions as they stop her in the street. He listened to the calls from others as they wolf whistle hanging from up high on scaffolding, leering as they worked. Especially when she trotted by, with her platinum blonde hair, big, hooped gold earrings, wearing her skin-tight black capri pants, her green off-shoulder jumper, showing off her tanned skin and her red stiletto shoes, giving her pretend height, making her calves look good.

Mark admired his mother watching as she flirted with this endless line of men trying to grab her attention. While he, a naive child of 8 years, observed holding her hand tightly.

One sunny day in June, after a long talk with one of her admirers, Mary, not paying attention, walks behind a parked car. She did not see the other vehicle careering towards her. The brakes screeched as they came to a halt, but it was too late. The car's mirror clipped Mary, and she is thrown into the air, hitting the windscreen on the way down, rolling off the bonnet and thuds onto the ground. Young Mark is in shock as he witnesses his mother's body lying lifeless. Now paralyzed from the waist down, Mary relied solely on her boy.

From the age of 8 years, Mark has taken care of his mother. The poor boy is no longer her son. Instead, he is a slave to the gold bell that his mother would ring at every opportune moment.

Mark tried many times to leave her as he grew and start his own story, but she always persuaded him to stay by playing on his conscience. And because of this, he wasted 30 odd years of his life adhering to his mother's whims. But, apart from her mood swings, she was simple to look after.

Most of her time she spent in bed watching Marilyn Monroe DVDs. Lip syncing the words and miming when the actors came on. She would make all the motions with her arms flailing to the music from her bed.

When the film finished, she would reach for the gold bell and ring it frantically, summoning her son. Mark would drop whatever he was doing and go running—panting like an older man gasping for breath. As he approached her bedroom door, he could hear her singing.

"I wanna be loved by you, just you, and nobody else will do. I wanna be loved by you alone, ooh boo be doo."

Mark enters his mother's bedroom. He can see that she is waiting by her wheelchair, perched on the edge of the bed. So, she could take out the DVD and place it carefully back into its plastic sleeve, the one with a picture of her favourite film star on the cover.

Raising her arms, she grabs her son's thick neck. He lifts her into the chair and, even though it is just a short journey, places a blanket over her frail legs.

He pushes his mother across the plush faded pink carpet to the DVD player and observes as she changes one disc for another, the same ritual done for the past 30 years. He does not touch the silver box or the disc without consent. Then he watches as she places the prized possession back in the silver and black monogrammed case with an embossed picture of an old film studio camera, with the words 'In The Movies' written on top. The special box is full of old films. The ones starring Marilyn Monroe are labelled with gold stars so Mark can locate them quickly. Her son knew these were her favourite.

Mark pushes the chair back to the side of the bed; Mary raises her arms and grabs her son's neck again. Finally, he lifts his mother and places her on the bed covers, and because this was a good day, it usually ended with them both cuddling on the bed.

Mark climbed in next to his mother and rested his head on her chest, listening to her heart beating, feeling her breast rise and fall. At the same time, his mother strokes his face, the same as when he was a child, singing a song from the movie. It was a time when Mark loved his mother the most. The only moment when she was lovely. Although it was for her benefit, it never happened the other way.

Mark would instantly recognize if his mother had a bad day. The first thing she would do is grab that gold bell and ring it until it was just one long tone and at the same time screaming out his name.

"Mark!"

"Mark!"

He would drop whatever he was doing and run up the stairs.

"What is it? Are you feeling unwell, mother?" Her face is all contorted. Which tells him her mood has changed.

"Where have you been, Mark? I rang that bell for at least an hour. What have you been doing?"

"I have been downstairs preparing your lunch, and it hasn't been an hour, just ten minutes or so from the last time you rang."

"Are you calling me a liar?" She hissed.

"No, mother, I'm not." Mark lowers his head, sighs, and then asks. "What did you ring for?" she looks around the room, searching for anything.

"I need that mirror." She points to her dressing unit. Mark reaches for the gold patterned mirror, the only one sitting on the dresser. He lifts it.

"This one?"

"No, you stupid boy, the other one, I never use the gold one." Mark sighs.

"This is the only mirror, Mom." She glares at him.

"I want the other one!"

"There is no other mirror."

Losing her temper, she directly throws her brush at him from her bedside table, just missing his head. He ducks. She yells.

"Get my mirror!"

Mark replaces the mirror on the unit. Feeling hurt, he runs out of the bedroom, slamming the door as he leaves. Then running down the stairs, he grabs his car keys off the side table and heads out of the door.

His escape vehicle is his green Volkswagen beetle. He would flee just for a couple of hours while she ranted or slept. Some days, he would journey so far to get away from the nagging. He would drive through two towns with a feeling of freedom. Then his conscience implores him to return.

As soon as he enters the house, he can hear the bell and covers his ears. The ringing noise is too much. He can not handle her torture any longer. He thinks of settling his pain by killing his mother. Then, almost immediately, guilt swells his thoughts, and he snaps back to being the considerate son. The bell rings in a continuous tone.

He runs up to her room and opens her door. Her eyes look angry. He can feel them burn into his soul as he steps into her bedroom.

"Where have you been! Did you not hear the bell?"

"I was driving, Ma." She contorts her face.

"Where to? You don't have any friends!" Mark gives her daggers.

"If you must know, Mother, I have met someone." She sniggers.

"Oh really, What's her name?" He glances around the room and notices a vase of flowers.

"Er, Rose." Teasing, she asks.

"Where does she live, this girlfriend of yours?" Mark becomes flustered and starts to stutter.

"I, I, I don't know mother, I have only just m, m, met her."

"You're lying. I can always tell because you start st, st, st, stuttering." sarcastically stating. "Who would want you?"

Growing angry, Mark grits his teeth and then bites the inside of his cheek and slowly counts to ten.

"1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10" taking a deep breath in and, through pursed lips, slowly breathes out. Now calm. Mark looks around the room, and he notices that his mother did not take her pills. He made this deduction by viewing her half-empty China cup of earl grey and an array of biscuit crumbs scattered across the tray. So, he shifts the conversation subject to his mother.

"Did you take your tablets, Mother?" He picks up the half-empty cup swirling it to show her the evidence and moves the saucer across the tray. Two red and black pills roll from underneath.

"You have just eaten the biscuits again!" This time she lowers her head like a scolded child.

"I like the biscuits." Now enjoying that he has turned the conversation away from himself, Mark continues with the interrogation.

"Why have you not taken your meds, Mother? I will have to tell Dr. Brown." Her eyes grow big.

"NO! please don't tell him! I don't want to go back to that place." she quickly grabs the pills, and with the last drop of earl grey in the cup, she takes the medication in one gulp. Mark smiles.

"That's better, mother. Do you want me to put a DVD on for you?" She nods, her eyes crinkle at the sides as she smiles stating.

"Oh, you are a good boy. Mommy's boy."

So relieved that she has forgotten about the previous topic of him. He selects her favourite movie, Marilyn Monroe, in 'Some like it hot and slots it into the DVD player. Then, walking back to his mother, he hands her the remote control.

"There you go, Ma. Now watch your movie like a good girl." And he gently strokes her platinum hair as she settles down to watch her film.

Mark picks up the tray and leaves her room, closing the door. He finds a spot at the top of the stairs and sits down, placing the tray beside him, then holds his head in his hands, trying to hold back the tears. He knew that his mother could be cruel and then, in her next breath, so sweet. Her mixed emotions are driving him insane.

He places the tray on the counter in the kitchen, puts the cup and saucer in the sink, and turns on the hot tap, watching as the water fills the China cup, staring as it overflows. Finally, he lowers his head and sighs deeply. He turns off the tap and heads for the front door, walking out into the night, grabbing his car keys as he leaves.

Unfulfilled in his life, he goes in search of company, coasting up and down the streets in his green bug, looking for his perfect girl. On occasions, he would enjoy the company of prostitutes. Not in the way other men would use them for their sexual conquests. He just wanted to talk, but they never met his needs and would refuse. Just talking, never registered with them, and their boss would not allow it.

That evening a new girl approached his car window. She smiles.

"Hi sweetie, looking for a good time?" She is different from the others, more youthful and prettier. Mark winds his window down.

"Hi, you're new." he smiles. The girl leans on his open window, chewing gum, ignoring what he said.

"Do you want a good time?" Mark eagerly asks many questions.

"Do you live around here?" "Do you have a boyfriend?" How old are you?" Growing impatient, she tries to lift the door handle. It is locked.

"Do you want a good time? Come on. My boss is watching!" A guy standing in the shadows nods his head.

Mark leans over, unlocking the door. He watches as this young girl, around 17 years, climbs inside. Her black mini skirt rides up her legs as she sits. She adjusts her white blouse that is tied in a knot, showing off her cleavage. She pulls the door to close it. Mark feels embarrassed as he looks at her. She smiles. They drive off to a secluded alley.

"Mind if I smoke?" He shakes his head. The girl pulls out a cigarette box from her small shoulder bag, selecting one and then offering him the package. He shakes his head again.

"I don't smoke."

She presses the lighter button in the car, it clicks, and she lights her cigarette, puffing smoke into his vehicle. Mark can feel the vapour attacking his lungs, and he starts coughing. She begrudgingly throws it out of the window.

"Sorry about that, now where were we? What would you like me to do for you, sugar?" She grabs his leg. He recoils from her in disgust and shouts.

"No! I want to talk." She raises her hands in the air.

"Okay, well, it's your money. What do you want to talk about?"

"I want you to ask me about my day and then tell me that I have been a good boy," she smirks.

"Are you serious?" He shouts.

"Yes! tell me that I have been a good boy!"

"Okay, freak!"

"I am not a freak!" He glares at the girl. His eyes are dark and lifeless.

"Well, you are a freak, asking me to talk. What kind of man are you!" Scared, she grabs the handle opening the door to leave. Feeling emasculated, he yells. "Don't call me a freak!" Spitefully she shouts out.

"Freak!"

He screams at her.

"Don't call me a freak, mother!" His eyes are wild. He grabs her bleached hair from behind, forcefully dragging her back inside the car.

She screams, fighting her attacker from behind. He puts his thick fingers tight around her throat and squeezes.

Gasping for breath, she scratches Mark's hand drawing blood to make him release, but his grip grows tighter. Fighting for her life, she thrashes her legs, kicking the door and pulls at her attacker's hands. He is too strong. The girl's struggle weakens, he states.

"There now, mother, that's better."

Her arms drop from clawing his hands her legs stop flaying. Mark releases his grasp, and she flops onto the passenger seat like a ragdoll.

He climbs out of his vehicle and runs to the passenger side. The limp girl's body drops from the seat onto the road. The inside light illuminates Mark's crime. He stares at the lifeless form lying on the hard gravel for five minutes, and he strokes her bleach blonde hair and closes her eyes with his fingers. Then, snapping out of his trance, he lifts the dead girl and drags her to the front of his car, dropping her on the road as he opens the frunk of the Beetle.

He scans the road, then, lifts the dead weight, throwing her inside, and slams it shut. Then returns to the driver's side. He sits in his car staring out of the windscreen into the darkness of the alley for a few minutes as he realizes what he has just done. What is he going to do? Scolding himself while he bangs his head a couple of times on the steering wheel, shouting.

"You idiot, Mark! Why did you have to kill another one?" He bangs his head again. Then composing himself, takes a deep breath and turns on the ignition, then puts the car in gear, and drives home.

When he arrives, after securing the garage door, the first thing he does is lift the dead girl out of the vehicle and place her gently on his workbench. He is in the safety of his home, and anything goes. He strokes her bleached hair with a gentle touch. Then his mood changed, and he adjusted her position on the bench with an uncaring approach. He switches on the table saw.

Upstairs, Mary can hear whirring coming from the direction of the garage. She is aware that her son is home and starts to ring her bell desperately. Mary needs to go to the bathroom. Again, a sound of whirring coming from the garage arises. She yells.

"Mark!

"Mark, are you home?" The whirring continues. She pauses, waiting for the noise to stop. Then rings the bell frantically. It has gone deafly quiet downstairs. She calls out again.

"Mark? Are you home?" He opens the door from the garage and steps into the kitchen.

"Mark!"

"Yes, mother!" He shouts from the sink as he washes the blood from his hands, removes his shirt and soaks it in the cold running water.

"Are you home?"

"No, Ma, I am still out." He laughs. She grows impatient with his little remarks.

"There is no time for fooling, boy. Get up here and take me to the bathroom!" Mark dries his hands and then throws the blood-stained towel on the pile of washing by the door.

"I'm coming." He climbs the stairs, missing two steps every time. Then he acts all innocent. Finally, he walks into the room, panting and smiling.

"Why are you grinning boy? Come here quickly. I need to go!" Mark smirks as he leans down, lifting his mother onto her chair.

"Quicker boy, quicker!" She yells desperately. Mark wheels his mother to the bathroom, helps her to the toilet then stands waiting.

"It's not a peep show, you pervert, get out!" Blushing, Mark retreats out into the hall and swiftly closes the door.

"Get away from the door Mark. I will call you when I have finished." He abruptly moves away from the bathroom. His mother embarrassed yells while turning the taps on to cover the sound.

"Mark, are you standing outside the door?" Then, sighing deep, her son replies.

"I'm in the bedroom, Ma!" Mary flushes the toilet.

"I've finished!" Mark leaves the bedroom and opens the bathroom door. Mary is adjusting her clothes, pulling down her dress and then shuffles to the edge of the toilet seat, waiting for her chair. Alternatively, she turns on the tap and washes her hands, shaking them in the direction of her son as he wheels in the chair. He grabs a hand towel.

"Here, Ma, dry your hands." She smiles, her eyes wrinkle at the sides.

"Oh, you are a good boy today." Mark grins like a Cheshire cat.

"Thank you, Mother."