Tell Me

TW: manifestations of a mental health disorder and some description of physical violence

You know what? I don’t know if I should tell you this or not. I, myself, am a bit distressed at the moment. Therefore, I could use a clear mind, a reasonable mind, a partial mind to judge the whole situation. Yes, what you see is correct, this is the corpse of Mother. Yes, I was the one who killed her, you can see the hammer clearly in my left hand and a blow on her right temple. Her body scattered on the floor. But let me explain how I got into the situation in the first place.

She called me, right as my kettle was boiling. I could barely hear her over the whistle.

“Tarry, I’m leaving the house. Come for your money in about 2 hours when I’ll be back.” I needed to borrow more money from her until my wage kicked in. It was just a matter of time.

Well, I thought, great. Finally, the old had wasn’t there anymore. She was always in her foul-smelling, dust-infested cramped apartment, eyeing me. Now, I could just nick her money or sell her jewelry and be done with it. This thing with borrowing her money was getting on my nerves recently. And it’s her fault, alright? She was being a cranky cow about it every time I brought up the subject and started nagging and nagging and nagging until – I just wouldn’t have any of this anymore. And she never leaves the house, makes us all bring the groceries and utensils, and cleaning material when she runs out. Leave it at the front door and scatter. Not a grateful word about it. Anyways.

Next thing I know, I’m walking up the stairs, stepping right on her tasselled doormat, and as I reach to insert the keys, the little bugger won’t budge. How is the old cunt not leaving me out of sight to take a piss, but she’s leaving her door open for a two-hour church meeting. Impossible. I thought to myself.

And I was right. As soon as I opened the door, her wrinkly expression and stale, sour body odor hit my face.

“The event was cancelled. At least don’t look so disappointed to see me, you ungrateful twat.” She croaked.

My face distorted into a crooked smile. The ancient crone. First, she tells me she’s out of the house. It couldn’t have been better news. I form a plan and not moments later she decides to mock destiny in the most gruesome way possible? Really, how could this have been my fault.

“Sit down and have some tea with me.”

She got out that faded-blue cheap china tea set she got for her birthday from the downstairs neighbor. Some parts of it were cracked. We sat down on the disfigured armchairs separated by a deplorable table with a linen cloth thrown on top (to hide the cracks and smears). She handed me the most wretched tea cup from the set. She put some sugar into hers and stirred it with the tiny spoon. I flinched at the sound of the two materials clashing into one another.

 TING TING

“You can have your money after we finish talking.”

I looked down at the discolored liquid in my cup.

“I’m a lucky woman that at least your brother is a self-standing man. A good job, wife, and kids. He never failed to disappoint me.” I looked up. Her faded eyes sparkled with joy.

TING TING

Of course. Mommy’s little bootlicker git.

“Not like your father, the old piece of trash. Found his sorrows at the bottom of his stolen cheap vodka, he did. You smell just like him.”

TING TING

She wasn’t wrong, I was a dab pissed.

“Have you paid your debts off to Mr. Wheatley? I’m not giving you any more money until you pay your debts, let me be–“

“I’m going for a smoke.”

 TING TING

I got up as quickly as I could. Don’t you see how badly I didn’t want to kill her, to avoid the situation?! Smoking calms my most agitated nerves. If I had the intention of killing her, I wouldn’t do it with a clear head, like a first-class cold-blooded psychopath. Goodness, I hope you don't have that impression of me. It would have probably been then and there, across the tea table, so blind with rage I couldn’t think straight. Yes, that is how it would have happened. However, one smoke could freeze the anger and resentment Mother always seems to build up in me. I didn’t even want the goddamn money anymore. I just wanted her to shut up.

As I looked out at the open green space between the communist apartment buildings, I noticed from the corner of my eye the old man’s hammer covered in spider webs. It was leaning in the corner of the balcony, crowded with other tools. That senile hoarder. She doesn’t know how to use them, but God forbid she gave them to me. The hammer was still in beautiful shape, solid, just a little rusty. It beamed at me in the heat of the day, like a signal from above.

Suddenly, I felt as if my entire body was submerged underwater. The sound of the kids screaming at each other in the playground was drowned, but the TING was piercing through my ears. My blood started boiling again. My heart was pounding in my chest. I could feel myself losing control again.

I got back from the balcony, hammer in hand Had she turned to me and saw me menacingly approaching her with the hammer. Had her eyes shifted from the perpetual disappointed glance to a terrified one. Had she screamed. I’m not a monster. Of course, I would have stopped dead in the middle of the room. I would’ve justified my possession of the gigantic hammer– Oh, I just saw loose nails on a floorboard near the kitchen sink last lime, … just wanted to take a look at it, that’s all. And that would’ve been the end of it.

But she didn’t. She didn’t turn to me and see me menacingly approaching her with the hammer. Her eyes didn’t turn from the perpetual disappointed glance to a terrified one. She didn’t scream. It was too late for her.

The hammer slipped through my sweaty fingers a little as I raised it and my balance was a bit askew as I went for her head. But it wasn’t straining at all. There was a loud crack as the blow shattered the skull, and she just dropped dead with a thump over the oval, grotesque flowery carpet, splashing blood all over. Silence. And that was it. Then I crashed into the squeaking armchair and lit myself another cigarette.

I could indeed have handled the killing part better, now that I think about it. But wouldn’t that have been worse? Premeditated murder. I just acted on my own accord and feelings here. The neighbors have heard the loud bang and will come to investigate the situation. At the very least dear Mike will seek Mother tomorrow, as the obedient son that he is. And I’ll just lie here. With my sins. My weaknesses. Just stay here and smoke. Perhaps take a little nap until someone barges in.

Now I’m done with my story, my friend. You know all the facts. My actions are convictable but not really condemnable. Or are they? I ask you.

Am I a mad man? Am I a broken man? Am I a wretched disappointment? What am I?

Tell me.