The Son’s Dilemma

This story contains mention of child abuse, sexual abuse against a child, and incest.

~

The mental abuse started before the physical.

Dad left mom and I when I was 14. Countless fights between them. Countless words I heard that weighed so much on my heart, as I felt nothing but guilt, like I was the root of their problems. Which I guess in a way I was. Obviously, I knew I wasn't an easy child, but even from a young age, I knew the way I acted didn’t warrant the treatment I got.

I guess somewhere along the way it morphed into me feeling like this was my role, what I was born for. My duty as a son, just a young child, was to take care of his mother from a young age, because she was unable to take care of herself anymore. Too stricken with the fact that her husband left her and her child.

Even years after dad left us, the abuse stayed. It morphed into something completely different. It’s something ruinous, and I don’t want to be used as an outlet for mom anymore. I can’t do it, I won't.

Mom said I look like him, so I guess the beatings I got were her way of getting back at my father. 

You take after your father.

Hit.

You're just like him.

Hit.

It’s your fault he left.

Hit.

Why did you leave me? We had a beautiful life together.

hit

hit

HIT

I looked like dad too, according to mom. Maybe that’s why she resented me so much. Eventually, the resentment contorted into something forbidden. Something I didn’t want, something I never wanted. But she did, and apparently that’s all that mattered. She continued to take and take, even long after I had nothing left to give.

By the time I was 18, I was nothing left but an empty shell of a boy, constantly hollow. Filled with nothing but disgust. Disgust with my father for leaving, disgust for myself for allowing mom to do what she did. Disgust for my mother for thinking it was okay to do what she did to me, to her own son. Doing things only a wife should do to her husband, not her child.

My therapist suggested journaling to help get all these thoughts and feelings out, the ones I had a hard time voicing. Of course, she had no idea about the physical and sexual abuse, just the mental, or this would’ve ended years ago. Ending with me going into the foster system.

Which I guess in hindsight would’ve been the better outcome. 

So I started journaling, writing down everything that had happened. Things I wish I said. Words that hurt, so I can finally maybe feel something other than this constant hollowness.

It has definitely helped. Even now, as I write the last few words, sign T.L. at the bottom in a beautiful black leather bound notebook, and close it shut. I’ve been filling journals faster than normal lately. My floor to ceiling bookcases, most of their space being taken up by my journals.

After I filled the first two shelves, I lost count at how many I had. 

As I grab the next notebook, I pause. My fingers hovering over the cover of a notebook I’ve never seen before. I may not remember how many notebooks I bought, but I definitely remember the covers of every one I’ve bought. I pick each one out with purpose. 

But this one?

This one I’ve never seen before.

I run my hand over the top of the journal, feeling the soft leather beneath my fingertips. A small shudder went through my body as I felt an odd sense of déjà vu the longer I looked at it. That’s odd. 

It was dark green and leather bound, with brown deckled edges. It ties shut with small leather strips wrapping around. No design on the cover, but a small gold peacock charm hanging from the leather rope.

I look back to my bookshelves, seeing rows of my black journals. Always black, never anything else. Definitely never green.

I flip open to the first page, already seeing handwriting, and a date. I feel even more confused, as I see the date from a few weeks ago. It read,

September 21st, 2019

Entry#1

I flip through the rest of the pages, feeling the roughness between my fingers. Only to see the rest of the pages empty. Taking the book in my hands, I flip it around, looking at it front to back, trying to find anything. Hopefully a name, and wondering how it ended up in my bedroom?

I don’t know why I’m reluctant to read it, but I feel disquiet as I set the book down on my desk. Laying my hands flat on either side of the journal, I stare at it, hoping to get maybe even an inkling of recognition. I keep staring, and staring, but nothing comes.

My curiosity finally got the best of my as I flipped open the journal to the cover page. My eyes zeroed in on the initials T.L. at the bottom right corner. I run my thumb along the initials, my heart stammering as I see the ink smear beneath my fingertip. It’s fresh.

What the fuck?

I scramble to grab one of my other journals as I hurry to flip to the last page.

T.L.

They match, down to the pen stroke. Down to the same color ink I use everyday. Even the top of the letter T that doesn’t completely connect to the bottom. They match.

My heart jumped to my throat as I flipped to the first page as I started to read.

September 21st, 2019

Entry#1

Mother always said, “Son, always stick to routine, no one likes a disordered man.”

6 p.m. dinner. 

7:30 p.m. Show with mom in the living room.

8:30 p.m. Brush teeth and shower.

In mom's bed by 9.

Dad left when I was 14, which was years ago. Mom started getting me to bed shortly after he left. You always took after your dad, same hair, same eyes. Same hands. In her eyes, I was dad in every way that mattered. 

Loved and known by many, local high school teacher dead by apparent suicide.

That's what the newspapers said on September 6th, 2019. Shortly after my eighteenth birthday. Apparent drug overdose on antidepressants.

Poor thing. They said she couldn't handle the pain of being a single mother and having her husband leave her. She's had a hard life. And she had a son too? Poor kid will be all alone now. And by antidepressants? Truly tragic.

Seizures, vomiting, respiratory distress, and the bottle in her hand. So people just assumed. They just assumed she was sad and couldn’t take it anymore. They just assumed. Didn’t do a toxicology report. Just took one look at her and decided the cause of death was on scene.

Called the coroner to take the body away, and that was it.

Cyanide has most of the same side effects as any drug overdose. Very easy to hide actually. I just didn’t think it would be this easy. I just got lucky they decided any further testing wasn’t needed. 

The funeral was on September 19th, 2019, two weeks after they took her body out of the house. The wake was at the house, right in the backyard. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends all gathered on our back porch telling fond memories of my mother. 

“She was such a good mother, that Violet.” No, she wasn’t.

“Poor kid is going to be all on his own now.” How I planned to always be. 

“That boy has already been through so much, he’s not even crying. Probably already past the point of feeling numb.”

Exactly right. I felt nothing. I feel nothing.

I felt nothing after that first night my mom touched me. I even felt nothing when I put the cyanide in the wine she downs every night, before taking her antidepressants and getting me into her bed. Even felt nothing as I watched her look at me through watery eyes as she choked on her vomit while she struggled to take her last breath.

The only feeling I remembered having that day was this strange tightness all over my body. It’s like my body mourned her before my mind did. I remembered trying to find an ounce of guilt, sorrow, or even forgiveness in my head. Waiting for it. But it never came.

T.L.

I stood up with such urgency, my chair knocked backwards from behind me. The wooden chair hit my floor with a loud bang. My surroundings seemed to spin as I thought of nothing but the mysterious green journal on my desk.

My breath came out in short spurts as my hand clutched my chest tightly, the fibers of my shirt burning into my skin.

What the fuck.

What the fuck?

Whoever wrote this had my problems, my life, the same kind of mother I have? But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Apparently I wrote it. Didn’t I?

It had my initials, the same color ink from the pen I use everyday. Same handwriting even. Everything was so specific, so correct. Even down to the specific nightly schedule. No one knows about that. Not even my therapist. 

So it had to be me, it had to be. But on the other hand, it couldn’t. My mom was still alive. Still doing the same shit I wish would’ve stopped years ago. More than likely, she was just drunk out of her mind in the living room right now.

Wait, that's right, she drinks every night. 

I'll just go to the living room, and I'll see her sitting on the couch, wine glass in her hand, and the nearly empty bottle next to her. I'll see her alive and sitting there, so I know this isn’t just some sick test God put on me.

A thunderstorm in my ears as I reached my bedroom door and swung it open, calling out, “MOM!”

I paused, waiting for a response, but nothing came, not even a whisper of life through the house. I slowly stepped out of my bedroom into the empty hallway. I looked to my right towards her door, hoping for a sliver of light coming from under her door. Waiting for her voice to call me to her bedroom, maybe she went up early?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

I started to tiptoe through the hallway trying to pick up anything. Awareness of anyone in the house, anything at this point. Goosebumps ran over me head to toe as I stood in the entry to the living room. My eyes run over every inch of the room. 

Small streams of light still streaming in from the sunset outside, catching the small dust particles in the air. The room seemingly undisturbed, despite us just being in the living room yesterday. I walk over to look at the couch, only to see no impressions in the cushions. My eyebrows furrowed as I also looked at the coffee table, seeing it empty of mom's things.

Her prescription bottles, wine glass, and several bottles of wine are missing. Just gone. I picked up the remote to see a small clean spot, free of dust left behind. 

My heart started beating faster as I stared at the clean spot on the table. Mom hated things that were unclean. Absolutely despised it. She hated it almost as much as being off schedule. So to have this much dust, this much mess? Is unlike her. 

My head started to spin as I returned to her room, nearly tripping on the rug. I came to a stop in front of her door and put my ear to it. Hoping for a sound, but I heard nothing.

I turned the door knob, only to reveal an almost empty room. I looked around, seeing bare walls that used to have bright floral wallpaper. Wallpaper that I had to stare at every night just ripped from the walls. 

Her bed, nightstand, vanity are all gone. You wouldn’t even know that anyone lived here if it weren’t for the few boxes labeled MOM in bold letters. I stood there, dumbstruck as I ran my fingers through my hair and yanked on it. My hands started to shake as I thought about where she could’ve gone. 

I pull my phone out, trying to think of who I can call to figure out where mom is. But I pause when I see the date in bold letters.

September 21st, 2019

I dropped my phone, and I swear I heard a crack. I heard my heartbeat in my ears as I stared at my broken phone on the floor. More importantly, why is all her stuff in boxes? September 21st? But that can’t be right. 

None of this is making any fucking sense. How did I get that stupid journal, and where is my mom? I slowly sank to the floor as I stared at mom's empty room. Where the hell did she go?

I make my way out of mom's room and back to mine as I try to rack my brain for any answers. I made it to my doorway as I took another pause, my hand resting on the side of my door frame.

My chair was sitting upright, pushed under my desk.

But, didn’t it fall?

No, it definitely did, the loud sound was still ringing in my ears. I cautiously walk into the room, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that could’ve put the chair back. Was mom playing a trick on me? I run my fingers over the top of the chair, feeling the soft wood run beneath my fingertips.

I pull it out from underneath my desk, but it doesn’t budge. I stare at the chair curiously, pulling on it again. Nothing. It’s stuck? I crouched down to see what the leg is stuck on. 

A corner of the floorboard was pushed to the side, just enough to fit the leg of the chair inside. I fully crawl under the desk and pull on the chair leg, waiting for it to give. It seemed deeper, and the sound of glass rang through the air. I paused, and I pulled the chair back up and let it fall again. The same glass sound rang out again.

Glass? Why is there glass underneath my floors?

I finally managed to pull the chair out and pushed it behind me. I stared at the misplaced floorboard, one concealing a mystery beneath it. I closed my eyes as I begrudgingly moved the board out of the way.

I yanked and pulled on the floorboard ‘til it finally gave. I crawled back and put the board next to my desk. I looked to the seemingly bottomless black hole in my floor. The longer I stare, the more it seems to call me. Taunting me.

I said a quiet fuck it in my head and slowly moved my hand towards the hole in my floor. I lowered my hand and immediately got the chills. Why is it so cold? Everything in me told me to pull out my hand, every fiber of my being. But I didn’t, I stayed.

I pushed my hand down a few more inches, fingers immediately pressing against something cold. A shiver ran through me, and I went to curl my fingers around the small object. I pulled my arm out and crawled out from under the desk. I stood up to get a better look at the small object. It’s a small brown bottle, bigger than a vial.

I looked at it curiously and started to turn it around in my hands. Where did this come from? 

I found a small label at the bottom of the vial, causing my heart to jump erratically in my chest. My hands started to tremble, resulting in me dropping the glass bottle. The sound of glass shattering echoed through the room like a thunderstorm. I took an immediate step back, bumping into my desk. The sound of my lamp and things falling to the floor with a loud crash. 

My breath was coming out in quick gasps as my hands gripped the edge of my desk, the flickering light from the broken desk lamp causing shadows on my wall. 

Cyanide.

The bottle was cyanide.

But how? How is this even possible? 

My knees hit the floor as I hurried back down to see if there’s anything else in there. I jammed my hand into the compartment without pause, causing a splinter or two to get caught in my skin. I paid no attention to the pain as my hand hit the bottom of the hole. 

A piece of paper?

I closed my fist around it, not caring if it crumbled, and yanked my hand back out. I hurried to stand up to get a better view of this piece of paper. I quickly brought it to my face. It’s smooth and small in size. I flattened out the wrinkles, and my lungs seemed to deflate, and my eyes went wide. 

In loving memory 

Violet Lane

January 11th, 1978 ~ September 19th, 2019

Loving mother and friend

She will be missed

Moms… dead? She’s actually dead?

I really killed my mother, I poisoned her, just like the journal said. I finally made what I wanted to happen for years. I let my eyes run over the words again, before I let the paper fall through my fingers to the floor among the shattered glass. Her eyes staring back at me, almost provoking me. Like many times before throughout the years. Only this time she can never do it again.

I closed my eyes and softly smiled, body relaxing for the first time since dad left. She can never touch me again, and I made sure she never will.