Mommy Dear It's Me

Content Warning: {Themes of abuse, murder and suicide}

The shrouded sun cut like a razor through the broken canopy of maple limbs and gnarled oak branches, splashing across the faded and weathered white sheet metal of an old camping trailer whose skin was riddled with rusty screw heads. The light drizzle of rain had given it a sheen, reflecting the fading light back to the trees. As drips trickled down to the leaves on the musky woodland ground, a sudden yellow flash illuminated the aluminum frame of the window from inside the camper.

Jackson leaned back in his seat, and with his index finger, clinked closed the lid on a zippo lighter adorned with a purple sugar skull. The gentle drag from the Marlboro cigarette lit up the inside of the trailer with a soft red glow. White smoke billowed out of his nostrils, rolling over a blank sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen resting on a plain white envelope. Tapping an ash, he reached over to the wall sconce above the table and twisted the switch.

With a click, a gentle blue light bathed the wood panel interior of an almost empty space. Besides the shotgun leaning in the corner, and the backpack askew on a small bed with ruffled sheets, one could barely tell a person lived there. After a few puffs, Jackson switched the smoke to his other hand, grabbed the pen, and started writing.

Hello father,

I would call you dad, but you never really were much of one. I regret to tell you that you will be the one to come and pick up the pieces after all is said and done. I finally found out the truth. I spit in one of those vials and mailed it off to the ancestry place. It all makes sense now, you never told me I was adopted. You saved me from the foster care system and for what? So you could abandon me to live with a psychopathic monster. That's right. I said it. After you left, what was it ten or twelve years ago, she turned all that vitriol and poison on me. Don't worry, I remember the cheap glass flower vases shattering on the wall. I know why you left. She never laid a hand on me while she had you to abuse.

I'm only going to tell you about the really bad stuff. I'll leave out details of the never-ending passive-aggressive conversations and constant gaslighting. Do you know how it feels to be locked in a room for two days with just a bottle of water? The hunger eventually goes away. I chewed on my cotton pillowcase for comfort. What is a little boy to do when Mom, excuse me, 'it' turns the door handle around and locks him in his bedroom. She never figured it out, but after a few times I learned how to unlock it with an ink pen cartridge and sneak out after she was passed out in bed and feed myself with raw pasta noodles. I would always lock myself back in later, knowing if she ever found out she would beat me with that broken broom handle.

I found out on the internet that you remarried. If you were a real man you would have stepped up and fought for my custody. Unfortunately, you are a selfish asshole who doesn't have any shame. I guess I should be glad that it still enjoys sex. I didn't know what freedom felt like until it left for a couple of days. I think I was nine the first time it disappeared for a few days. She was very careful to not let anyone in the house after you left, she, I'm sorry, 'it' knows what it does and hides it well.

Here is one last nugget before I tell you what I am about to do. Did you know she only burned me with cigarettes in the summer, when I was out of school? During the school year, she hit me with a rubber hose full of sand. If you don't do it too hard it doesn't leave any marks.

So here is the deal, by the time this letter gets to you the deed will be done. I'm going to murder her, kill myself and destroy all the evidence.

Love,

Jackson

He folded the letter neatly into thirds and slipped it into the stamped and addressed envelope, sealing it with his tongue. Jackson lit up another cig and looked at the three things on the table in front of him.

Fire. A red metal jug with a screw-on lid sat on the table in front of him. It was scratched and dented, damaged like him. One full gallon of petrol. Fire unlocked the secret chemical bonds of most things, rendering them back to their molecular components. The cherry on his smoke lit up his smile. The thought of dousing its dead body with gasoline and setting it ablaze was satisfying.

Jackson imagined her bedroom engulfed in flames, the mattress flaring as the curtains poured flames up the walls to the ceiling. He wasn't sure if the firefighters would get there quick. He wondered if he should make an emergency call with his cell phone and throw it out the window of the truck on the other side of town as a distraction.

The old house was full of clapboard and carpet, the perfect fuel for the fires of hell. If one looked closely, one could see the dragon in the flames, the destroyer, the devil. He marveled at the duplicity of the word fire. Fired from his job yesterday, he knew that one girl might miss him, the one he talked to on break. Everyone else would have to find someone else to pick on.

The Belt. It lay coiled like a serpent next to the jug. He thought about the gun as well. It was quicker, yet asphyxiation seemed much more appropriate. Nobody would get the sick joke of him choking himself to death from his old bedroom door handle that was facing the wrong way. The crime scene investigator would not even wonder for a second why the lock on the bedroom was on the wrong side. He even purchased a nylon belt with a plastic buckle that would burn up in the fire.

The thought of leaving this odd mystery behind made Jackson chuckle. They might think it was a double homicide. With his dad coming back after getting the letter, who knows, maybe he might even be a suspect. Wouldn't that be some sick justice from beyond the grave?

The Knife. There was just something so personal about doing the deed with a knife. Carried in our pockets and purses, and used to prepare meals and open stuff, Jackson selected it with care. One foot in length with a seven-inch blade and a blood groove. He could stash its Kydex sheath in the top of his boot.

KABAR. The legend told by the shop owner revolved around an illiterate mountain man who first carried one and couldn't spell very well. He wrote back to the company that he used it to kill a bear, yet in his words, it was spelled KA-BAR. D2 tool steel. He asked the merchant if it would punch through a door. He was sure after watching videos of a man chopping red paint cans open with one, it would suffice.

The reality of what he was planning sunk in. Alone. It was the only state of being he had ever known. No girls ever asked him out on a date. The guys in high school mostly ignored him. He numbed himself to it all. After graduating he was hired by the local factory. He had been making car parts for a few months when someone turned him on to pills. 'Go ahead and take one, you are always so bummed out. They will make you feel better.'

The first time is always the best, then as a budding addict, you chase that feeling for the rest of your life. He didn't know what a drug test was until his results came back. The guard escorted him from the building the previous day. Jackson pulled a baggie from his pocket. There was one oxycontin pill left. He popped it in his mouth and sucked on it like a breath mint.

He ruminated on stabbing his mother to death in her sleep. Jackson slipped the letter into his pocket as his thoughts drifted. It's her fault, all of it. I'm incapable of having a relationship with another human because of her. That evil bitch ruined my life. I'm a broke nobody living in a camping trailer like a hobo. If I kill her that is one less rotten scumbag human sucking air. Where is the justice in just committing suicide? Isn't taking someone with you the 'in' thing to do these days? You've stabbed a few cats and dogs and buried them in the woodlot. It'll be like old times again, only this time it is a real monster.

Jackson shook the box of cigarettes. There were a few left, he needed to save one for when he put the belt around his neck. Stab, burn, smoke, choke. Hey that kind of rhymes, I'll write that on the back of dad's envelope.

If he waited until midnight he was sure Mom would be passed out with a belly full of booze. The seconds ticked off, as the gentle rain dripped onto the metal roof making soft music. His thoughts invaded again. What if I'm wrong? What if I'm to blame? I was an awful kid always pulling pranks and weirding off. Maybe I deserved it. Mom did feed me and do my laundry. She took me to school and kept a roof over my head, even after dad left. I'm a bad person. That is why nobody likes me. Jackson slid the envelope back out of his pocket and looked at it. He clenched up, as his face contorted and tears blinded him. He shuddered a breath before wiping his eyes with his shirt sleeve and letting out a sigh.

Looking out the window of the camper, Jackson spotted a female deer with a fawn grazing out in the field by his driveway. The fawn pranced and bucked, its white tail wagging back and forth. If there is a such thing as reincarnation, that's what I want to come back as. Not a care in the world, eat, poop, sleep. Caring for our young, it is so basic even crocodiles do it. Why are humans so fucked up? How in the hell have we survived?

Jackson banged his fist on the tabletop in frustration. The mother deer and fawn turned up their tails and ran back to the safety of the trees. It was dark now, the low clouds tinted the sky a glowing pale blue. He grabbed the jug of gasoline by the handle, threw the belt over his shoulder, and jabbed the sheathed knife into the top of his work boot.

The rusty blue Dodge half-ton truck leaned at odd angles from the mismatched tires on the dirt next to his camping trailer. He set the red jug in an old milk crate zip tied to the pickup bed, next to the power steering fluid bottle and a crushed cola can. His knee-length duster blocked the chilly fall air.

The key was in the ignition. Someone would have to pay a brigand to steal this jalopy. Jackson banged a palm on the ignition cylinder, a repetition he resorted to when it wouldn't start outside the bar and grill one night. No sense in stopping the rituals now.

The small block 360cc V8 roared to life. The gentle lope of the motor put power to the rear wheels like a real vehicle. The mud slipped under knobby tires, as the passenger side headlamp flickered.

Electrical gremlins be damned, the truck chugged down the highway to town. Jackson had stowed the loaded shotgun behind the seat in a padded case. A man never knew when he would need a backup plan. The truck sputtered and lurched.

Highway 88 snaked through the Ozark foothills, back to his birthplace. The county sheriff patrol had an eye out for his type, the ones that only came to town when they needed something. The deputy was chalking up a slow night when he saw Jackson's passenger headlight dead. He pulled the Crown Victoria patrol car behind him trying to ease up without spooking him. Jackson let out a huff when he saw the cherries and blueberries fire off. He eased onto the shoulder and tried to cook up a good story in his brain.

“How you doin' tonight?” The deputy had his palm on the grip of a Kimber 1911, the clip full of .45cal hollow points.

“I'm fine officer. Jus' goin' to check on my Mom. She lives alone these days.” He blurted it out like a confession.

“You have any drugs or weapons?” The cop's LED beam searched his cab for contraband.

“Just my hunting shotgun behind the seat. It's unloaded with a sling full of No. 6 shot just in case,” he risked a lie.

The Deputy shined his light behind the seat, catching the glint of a polished wood stock peaking from a gun rug. Not smelling any liquor, he gave him a verbal warning, “Just keep your speed down, the weatherman is predicting dense fog later tonight. Get that headlight fixed OK.”

The Dodge jerked into the stream of traffic. He turned onto the main street of a little town already turned off. Not much was open past nine o'clock in the sleepy parts of the Midwest. Midnight was fast approaching and Jackson cemented his resolve. He pulled out his cell phone and was about to dial the emergency number when he noticed a text from the girl at work. It was a simple question mark. Nothing else. Jackson paused. He pulled over on the shoulder of the road and stared at the phone.

Looking up through the cracked windshield he saw a car swerve over onto the side of the road in front of him, the driver cycling the high beams on the headlights. It stopped in front of his truck, blocking him. The driver's door opened and the girl from work walked up to his truck as he rolled down the window.

“Where you been? I was worried, you weren't at work today,” her bright caramel eyes were quivering with emotion.

“They fired me yesterday.” Jackson looked away, trying to hide his shame.

“I'm sorry Jackson, that place is a dead end anyway.” She opened the door of his truck and pulled him out by the arm. Wrapping her arms around him tightly in a hug. He buried his head in the soft curls of hair on her shoulder; she smelled like lavender and rose petals.

He pulled back and she smiled at him, the genuine kind of look that melts the steel hearts of warrior men. Jackson thought for a second about what he was ready to do and stopped. He leaned back against the bed of the truck and tapped the last cigarette out of the box, firing it up with his lighter.

“The diner is still open. Why don't you follow me over there and we can talk over a cup of coffee?” She leaned in close to him, violating his personal space, and smiled again.

Jackson pulled the letter from his pocket and fired the zippo at the corner of it, watching it twist into ash, dropping it to the ground as the flames reached his fingertips.

“What was that all about?”

“You just stopped me from making a horrible mistake. Thank you for that.”

“You like coffee or cappuccino? I'm a bit of a wuss, I put lots of cream and sugar in mine.”