Confession Of A Bitter Boy

What a sad state of affair...

Pretty much all I remember of my mother, are these unending moments before bed, as I laid quietly, expectedly, tucked in. She would sing softly her songs, each word imprinting on me in the complete darkness, her voice, the only thing existing, magic yes.

Yet sleep avoided me always, curiously. Her leaving and closing the door left me, every night, abandonned.

Why did she have to leave me?

Far from soothing me, her voice heralded the coming void, the creeping emptiness of the night, and my mind spiraled in discord. Visions of monsters lurking in the dark, of evil surrounding all, circling me, invisible yet undeniable in my despair, until, rendered numb by their horrors, I recalled her voice, leading me to an uncertain slumber.

Often interrupted by some distant nightmare, waking me at that time between midnight and the unending hours before dawn, when the flow of time comes to a stop; in the dead of night, laying there on the bed, exposed, the blanket pushed aside in the suffocating sleep.

Shivering, confused, vulnerable, the lost boy, his chest reachable, delectable, the bed akin to an eldritch altar. A worthy sacrifice, where is the ceremonial dagger, the cup, the great God? Where are the beings dancing around, moved by the music of their torment, by the melody of their incomprehensible will, their unseen faces, weeping of bliss, at the prospect of torture once again, always.

Not daring to look around, at the shadows, at the beings, I hide myself under the bedsheets, unseen, hidden, gone, non-existent? Covering myself completely, convinced of the safety of my refuge, my carapace, my cocoon. Perhaps I'll emerge transformed, not as a butterfly but as a moth? Conceiled under there surrounded by their eyes I was paralysed, dumbstruck.

For I believe such is the true nature of my inner self;

COWERING UNDER THEIR GAZE.

Others frightens me, their eyes always ignite and smolder something deep inside me, an insecurity, a weakness in my core.

Far from enlightening, comforting, the eyes of others disturb me beyond belief.

What is it that they want, all of them? These, silouhettes, these figures rudely leaning against my mind, unrelenting in their pursuit?

How different can they be, really, from the monsters of the night, tormenting me with no end in sight?

What wicked desires muddy the waters of their minds?

And walking up to mother, in the uncertain stillness of the early morning. She is grotesquely hunched over the oven, holding the red glowing knife to her nose, inhaling all the smoke, the precious smoke, and throwing her head back, moaning, sighing, and then looking at me, not really seeing me, the invisible boy, the boy that was there. She placed some more of that stuff on the knife, again, again!

Until she turns over to look at me once more, in her eyes, an annoyance, a madness, violence even, yet no trace at all of shame. She ignores me, back to her drugs, to her abuses, to her escapes, as futile as they are.

She is no different from them, not in the slightest.

What a despicable woman, what a terrible mother. What a human being! To think such garbage is in my blood, no wonder then I am seeing all these things, no wonder I am tormented at every instant, by visions of foul things and by anxieties and hopelessness..

My mother isn't my mother, she is a beast! Mad and self-serving, addicted and afflicted, despised by one and all, despised by her own son,

what a sad state of affair indeed.

Despairing, truly.