A Mother's Disappointment

Michael hung the carcass on the meat hook with a grunt, the sound echoing in the windowless concrete room. He eyed his prize with a distinct sense of accomplishment. His catch was an absolute beast and, at Michael's best guess, would weigh in at roughly 250 pounds. 

It was a worthy prize. Made more so by the effort he had to put in to wrangle him. He had stalked this prey for far longer than ever before, ever mindful to remain unseen. Spooking his target would have ruined everything. It would have ruined the days he spent on the hunt, the watching, the waiting. One wrong step, one warning sound from any of the other animals that roamed this bleak jungle, would have turned him from the path Michael had so meticulously laid out for him.

But Michael had planned well as he always did. The time spent watching and waiting and studying every move was always worth it in the end. It all led to the kill, that one quiet moment when the light left the eyes and, with no spirit left to support it, the body collapsed.

Michael reached out to caress the rusty-brown hair on the head, he trailed his fingers through the soft fibres and down the muscled neck. It was such a beautiful colour though the spasming fluorescent tube above did it little justice. Even Michael's tanned skin looked sallow in its flickering light.

An angry buzz from Michael's phone had him flinching in surprise as it vibrated on the steel bench behind him. In this dank room, hidden away from sight and sound, his muted phone was uncomfortably loud. It was an unwelcome intruder in the blessed silence.

Glancing at the phone, he let out a frustrated sigh, his breath lightly condensing in the frigid air. He swiped hastily at the screen to decline the call and instantly regretted it. It would send her to voicemail but she was a clever woman. She would know it had not rung enough times. She would know that he had hung up on her and, for his mother, that was an invitation to keep calling. No one ignored Andrea.

Picking up his phone he prepared to call her but it was buzzing again before he had the chance.

“Hello, Mother.”

“Don't you hello me.” She sounded pissed. “I spoke to Brandon.”

She didn't elaborate, she didn't need to, and Michael was regretting his earlier conversation with his brother.

“Well?”

“Well what, Mum?” He held in another sigh but somehow she still heard it.

“Don't give me that, Michael. You told him you weren't coming. Why do you do this?”

Michael didn't answer. Brandon knew he hated these family gatherings, he understood it, but to rat Michael out so quickly to their mother… he couldn't help but feel a little miffed.

“Everytime I try to get the family together you somehow disappear and always use some ridiculous excuse. What line are you going to feed me this time?”

He made no effort to quash another sigh. He could hear his mother's sharp intake of breath at his insolent breathing. She was winding herself up ready to unleash on him at any moment.

“I have work to do, Mother.” Michael looked over the carcass before him. It wasn't his day job but it was still work of a sort. He couldn't tell his mother. That woman wouldn't hurt a fly let alone anything bigger. She'd never understand.

“It’s Sunday, Michael. Sunday. What could possibly be so important that it can't wait until tomorrow?”

Putting the phone on speaker, Michael set it aside and reached for his gloves and apron. There was no reason he couldn't multitask. “This needs attention now, Mum. There'll always be another dinner.”

Andrea's disappointed whine thrummed down the line and with it the usual sense of guilt at upsetting her. “I just want a nice dinner with the family. Is that so much to ask?”

Michael ground his teeth. She was laying it on thick like any true Mediterranean woman. Picking up his knife, he began skinning his catch, a desperate attempt to find solace in the familiar. “Try not inviting Jason and I might consider it.”

“Are you still hung up on that?” she asked, exasperation now staining her tone. “He doesn't mean any of it. Your uncle is just fooling about.”

“Stop making excuses for him, Mother,” he snapped as he scooped the internal organs into a large bucket. It wasn't calming him. Not like it was supposed to. “That man is a monumental arsehole and he treats you like crap. Why do you defend him?”

“Michael. Language.” she would never listen to a bad word about family no matter how awful they were. Family was sacred.

“Look, mum. I just can't right now.” He began peeling the skin from the body. It came away with a wet tear. “I'm sorry.” He was sorry. He loved his mother.

“Perhaps next time then,” she replied though it was more defeat than hope in her voice. 

“Yeah, maybe. I love you, Mum.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

Michael simply stood staring at the wall as his mother ended the call. He knew he should try harder with his family. They deserved a better him. Well, most of them did.

A wet plop brought him back to the task, quite literally, at hand. The skin was slipping in his grasp, the fats and moist tissues turning the skin into a slithering thing. He would set it aside for preservation later but the carcass needed to be dealt with now. Perhaps when he got to curing it he would find that calm he was looking for. 

Still gripping the slippery mass, Michal eyed the carcass. The red of the exposed muscles, the stark white of bone, the puddle of organs in the bucket beneath. The monster that had been James Cormer was no different than any of the others. Years of torment had been reduced to nothing more than blood and sinew. He was just like the others.

Michael's attention drifted to the trophies standing against the far wall. He had meticulously stuffed and mounted each and every one that had made his life miserable. Parsons, Harris, Baker, Deacon and Rutter all stood looking at him with empty eyes. The glass orbs he used perfectly mirrored the soulless stares they had in life. Cormer was to be the complete set but perhaps, Michael thought, perhaps there was room for one more. 

Uncle Jason would make a nice addition.