A Mother's Murder

A hand falls to the floor, just visible through the crack of the cupboard door. The tile is smeared with red. 

A small boy shrinks into himself, breathing heavily but quietly. He presses his face into his knees, which are pulled up to his chest so that he can squeeze into the cabinet. In the darkness, he hears footsteps, then the slam of a door. He lifts his head slowly, then reaches out to push the door open. He blinks as his eyes adjust to the fluorescent light, and as his vision comes into focus, he meets the lifeless gaze of his mother. 

“Hey, everything okay?” Emeric is pulled out of his thoughts. Startled, he looks up, meeting Dr. Stel's gaze. 

Dr. Stel smiles softly. She observes him for a moment more, then tilts her head and asks, “Where did you go just then? Up here?” She taps her temple with her pen. “I asked you to describe the night your mother died, and it seems like you checked out.” 

Emeric’s gaze falls to his lap. “I don’t know. I just get lost sometimes. When I’m talking or even just thinking about her… death. It’s like I’m right back in that cupboard, watching...” He grips his thighs to quell his shaking hands.  

“Well,” Dr. Stel shifts in her seat, “sometimes that can happen with trauma victims. You lose the ability to differentiate between the past and present.” She pauses, observing me thoughtfully for another moment. “I’m glad you’re here, Emeric. We can work through this together. Would you like to continue?” 

Emeric hesitates. He thinks about the years he’s spent running away from that kitchen cupboard, from his mother's body lying on the floor, and the memory becomes clearer the more he talks about it. “No.” He finally says. 

Dr. Stel nods and makes a note on her clipboard. “Okay, would you like to tell me a bit about your father?”

—

The keys land with a clatter into the porcelain bowl by the front door. In the silent house, the sound is amplified.

 “Dad?” Emeric calls. 

No answer. 

Emeric stands at the end of the hall. A door to his left leads to the kitchen, straight ahead there is a door into the living room, and to his right is the staircase which leads to the second-floor bedrooms. Emeric has lived in this house for as long as he could remember, and he couldn’t fathom leaving, despite the horrible memories were associated with it. Or, perhaps those horrible memories were the very reason they hadn’t left. 

Emeric wouldn’t want to leave the house regardless, because it was the only place he could still feel a connection to his mother. However, the connection he felt wasn’t always pleasant, and it wasn’t always just a feeling.

He steps slowly down the hall, afraid to make a sound. He reaches the threshold of the kitchen and leans against the wall, afraid to look around the corner, afraid he’s going to see a lifeless body lying on the floor. 

When Emeric began seeing his mother’s body lying where she died 16 years ago, he thought he was losing his mind. Every time he walked into the kitchen and she was lying there, Emeric’s breath caught and his heart lept into his throat, and he’d stand frozen in the kitchen doorway. But when his father walked into the room like he didn’t notice anything different, Emeric realized he was the only one who could see her. And he didn’t dare mention it to his father at the risk of setting off his temper.

Steadying himself against the wall, he takes a deep breath. He whirls around the door frame and into the kitchen, but the only sight he is met with is that of the cold, linoleum countertops, an empty table, and empty chairs.

“Hey,” 

Emeric whips around, finding his Dad standing in the doorway.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He observes.

“I was expecting to.” Emeric retorts.

His eyebrows raise, but he gives no response as he walks past and pats Emeric on the shoulder. 

Emeric watches as his father trudges over to the fridge and reaches inside for a drink. In the past, Emeric would point out his father's habit of coming home and immediately reaching for a beer, but his father would angrily argue that it’s been a hard day at work, he just wants to relax, and can’t he just sit and drink in his own house? 

Emeric watches his father anxiously, standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen. 

“I’ve started going to therapy,” he blurts out.

“Oh, yeah?” His father stops and leans against the counter, scrutinizing him. 

Emeric feels himself shrink under his father’s gaze.

His father’s eyes narrow as he says, “You know what I think of those people. They just want your money. They’ll fill your head with garbage.” 

Emeric could feel the anger rising inside him. 

“Well, you never let me talk about it. Today was the first time I’ve talked about it in years. And it… it felt good to get it out,” Emeric says. “I think it would be good for you, too.” 

His father scoffs. His body tenses up and he clenches the edge of the counter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He asserts, but Emeric notices his pained tone.  

“I just think that–” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” He repeats, pushing up from the counter. He stands wild-eyed, breathing heavily. 

Emeric opens his mouth to speak again but thinks better of it. He knows the line has been crossed. 

“You don’t know.” His father mumbles, clutching the beer and leaving the room.

Emeric stands alone in the kitchen, staring at the empty floor. 

—

“So he wasn’t always like this, correct?” Dr. Stel asks. 

“No,” Emeric answers, staring down at his shoes, “after mom died… he changed. He used to be caring and loving. He never drank. He loved spending time together as a family. But when she was killed, he became a completely different person. Growing up, I didn’t understand. I was in shock, I was grieving. I needed him. But he looked at me as if I had done something wrong. He pushed me away.”

“You were just a child,” She points out. 

Emeric looks at her, analyzing her face. But he doesn’t see pity, he sees understanding and empathy. Emeric has always been on the receiving end of pitiful glances, and it feels like a relief to know that she doesn’t pity him. Pity doesn’t change things. Pity doesn’t make the past go away. Pity doesn’t cure grief. 

“I was just a child,” Emeric affirms, mostly to himself. “But… I was there. I was there and I didn’t do anything to help her.” 

“What could you have done, Emeric?” She asks gently. 

“I could have…” 

He’s back in the cupboard, hugging his legs against his chest. 

“Don’t come out until mommy says so, okay, Bud?” His mother says, stroking his face gently before shutting the cupboard door, leaving the slightest crack. Emeric breathes slowly in the darkness, wondering how long until he could come out. He’s just about to reach and push the door open when he hears footsteps approaching the kitchen. 

A pair of feet walk into view. They are bigger than his mother’s, clad in brown leather shoes. Just then, his mother appears back in the kitchen.

“Get out of here.” She says firmly.

The leather shoes step forward.

 “Stop!” his mother shouts.

The leather shoes rush toward her, there is a flurry of grunts amid struggle, and there she is, like every other time he’s relived this memory: a fallen hand, lying right in front of his cupboard door. 

But this time, there’s something new. Something Emeric has never noticed before. As the brown leather shoes make their retreat, Emeric glimpses a small tattoo in the shape of a half moon, belonging to his father. 

—

Thrown and confused by this newfound memory, Emeric rushes home. He walks through the front door and stops to listen: he hears his father’s snoring in the living room. 

Emeric removes his shoes, places them by the door, then pads across the hall and up the stairs quietly in his socks. He enters his fathers bedroom, which looks like it had been the victim of a tornado. Clothes are strewn across furniture and floor, empty beer cans are piled high on the nightstands on either side of the bed. 

Emeric doesn’t know what he’s looking for, or even where to begin looking. He rifles through the dresser drawers, finding only his father’s underwear and socks. He looks under the bed, but there’s only trash that’s been drunkenly kicked beneath. 

He rises to his feet and walks softly over to the closet. He feels along the wall for a switch, and the light clicks on. The closet is just as unorganized as the bedroom, minus the piles of trash. To the right, his father’s clothes hang haphazardly, some shirts halfway falling off hangers, others piled on the floor. To the left, his mothers clothes hang untouched. They rest neatly on their hangers, as if frozen in time. 

Emeric reaches out and grabs the sleeve of a pink sweater, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. He brings the sleeve up to his nose to try and capture the scent of his mother’s perfume, a memory from his childhood that was long gone, when he notices tiny splotches of red. He examines them, and sees that there are splotches of red on other clothes too. 

With a tight feeling in his stomach, Emeric pushes the clothes aside. Behind them, there is a latch in the wall. He pulls the latch, opening a small door that leads into a crawl space. Emeric stoops down and feels around, hardly able to see in the little light offered by the closet bulb. His hand comes into contact with something solid, and he grabs it and pulls it out. 

He brushes his hand across the top of the box, wiping away a layer of dust. He opens the lid, and inside there are pictures. Pictures of his parents, of Emeric when he was young. There’s a picture of Emeric and his mother, smiling happily. There’s also a lock of hair, tied with a ribbon. The hair was a dark shade of brown, too dark to be Emerics. 

Beneath it all, there’s a handle. Emeric grabs the handle and pulls it out, the dull steel reflecting the dim closet light. 

He lifts the knife out of the box. It’s blade was stained with dried blood. His heart pumped as he held it in his hand, unable to move. 

“Put it back,” his father demands. Emeric didn’t hear him come in.

Emeric turns slowly, holding the knife out. “What is this?” He asks. 

“Nothing that concerns you,” his father says, and reaches for the knife.

Emeric pulls it back. “Why did you have it hidden away? Why does it have blood on it?”

“Because it’s nobodys business but mine,” he reaches for it again, but he’s swaying slightly and Emeric easily pushes past him. 

He runs out of the room and down the stairs, into the living room. He hears his fathers stumbling footsteps as he makes his way down the stairs. 

“Put. That. Back,” He says, looking sober and afraid now.  

“This… I saw this. I know this knife. This is the one.” 

“Emeric. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Emeric backs away. “It was you? All along?” 

“Emeric, please. Let me explain.” 

“There’s… there’s no way to explain. You did it.” Emeric looks up at his father, “You killed her that night.” 

“Emeric, she wasn’t who you think she was.” 

“She was my mother!” 

“She was using you! She was using me. All along, everything was a lie. Everything we built together, the life we had. It was all a lie.” 

Emeric shakes his head. “You’re crazy.” He backs away slowly, heading for the door. 

“Emeric, if that knife leaves this house, there will be consequences. Things you don’t want to happen.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“I learned things about your mother, by accident. One night, I walked in on her, bent over you as you were sleeping. I didn’t know what she was doing. But I found out.”

Emeric searches his memory for any remnants of his mother visiting his room at night, but can’t find any. He shakes his head in disbelief. 

“I don’t know what she was doing, but I was afraid of her. Afraid for the both of us.” He gestures toward Emeric, “That knife is what’s holding her in. If you bring it outside of this house, she will be free. She’ll come back. And innocent lives will be at stake.” He reaches a hand out, “Please, Emeric. Just put it back.” 

Emeric breath quickens. He furrows his brow, trying to understand what his father was saying, but none of it made sense. Suddenly, he runs, flinging himself toward the front door. He throws it open and races outside, clutching the knife in his hand. His father rushes after him, tackling him to the ground.The knife flies from his hand, landing on the concrete before them. 

“You don’t know what you’ve just done!” He father yells in his ear. 

“I know you’re a murderer! I know you killed her and got away with it and I’ve had to suffer for it all these years while you pretended to grieve by drowning yourself in booze!” Emeric struggles to break free, but his father is bigger and stronger. His father pushes himself up, running after the knife. Emeric makes to follow, but they both stumble as the ground suddenly shakes.

Emeric and his father stare at eachother, dumbstruck. Emeric watches as his father picks up the knife and rushes inside. He debates whether to follow or to call for help, but decides to follow his father. 

Inside, pictures have fallen off the walls and shattered glass is strewn over the carpet from the sudden earthquake. Emeric hears a noise in the kitchen, and creeps through the living room. He peers through the kitchen door and sees a woman standing with her back to him. She has long, dark brown hair. She turns and it’s–

“Mom,” Emeric says in disbelief. 

She smiles, “Hi, Emeric.” 

Emeric can’t speak, but he moves toward her slowly. He’s seen her before, but only lying on the kitchen floor, and never speaking. Never smiling. 

His mother walks toward him. She reaches out and touches his cheek. “You’ve grown so much. It’s been so long.”

Emeric breaks his gaze away from his mother, and he sees his father, dangling in midair in the corner of the kitchen, clutching the knife in his hand. His breath catches, and he glances back at his mother, whose eyes were now settled on his father, burning with fury. 

She walks toward his father slowly. His father could only stare at her. 

“Since you decided to send me into a little slumber, you gave Emeric time to grow and get stronger, which in turn makes me stronger. You did me a favor. You thought you could keep me locked away forever? Honey, you were bound to die someday.” She clenches her hand into a tight fist, and my father begins to writhe and struggle, as if in extreme pain. 

The knife falls from his hand, landing with a clatter on the floor. He hunches over, unmoving. She lowers her hand, and his body drops to the floor, blood seeping out from every orifice. 

She turns to Emeric. Emeric tries to move, but he has no control over his body. He feels numb all over. She walks toward him and reaches out to cup his cheek again. She looks him in the eye and says “Oh Emeric, I wish it didn’t have to be this way. You’ve worked so hard to get here, you’ve struggled through so much grief. You’ve gotten so strong, and that’s why I need you.” She grips Emeric’s face with both hands, tightly. “I want you to know that this was your destiny all along. You are fulfilling your purpose. You are full of power.” She stares into Emeric’s eyes, and he can’t tear his gaze away. He looks deeply into her eyes and watches pupils begin to change shape, from small circles to slits. She begins to chant something incoherent to Emeric, and he feels as though the air is being sucked from his body. He tries to move, to get away, but his body doesn’t listen. He stands there, his face in her hands, as she sucks the power from his body and melds it with her own.