Norman and Mother

Norman and Mother (for Robert Bloch)
By Stephen A Abell

Number of Words: 498



Norman hated his mother. Though, hated was not a strong enough word; he despised her with every inch of his rotted soul. Through his entire life, she belittled, embarrassed, contradicted, brainwashed, punished, and abused him. She watched him progress from a cracked baby into a shattered and broken man. All his life, he was under the severe pressure of her thumb. She lied about his father leaving; she took lovers right before his eyes; she lied about being bed ridden and had him fetch and carry trays of drinks and food up to her bedroom, where she lay like the Queen of Sheba in her bed, or sat in the rocking chair surveying all she possessed. That fucking motel.

As he worked at the mallard, carefully removing its insides through the incision he made in the dead ducks belly, he could feel her stare on the back of his neck and it unnerved him terribly. He sat in the back room of the reception area of the motel, practising his hobby of taxidermy while she was back up the hill, three stories high, rocking back and forth in the old wooden rocking chair. Her eyes, were constantly watching him, so devoid of trust. To her he was such a dirty, naughty, and nasty child. The blow, he had given her with the shovel, to the back of her head proved that.

If it had not been for those wonderful Egyptian documents, which Norman followed so diligently, and those strange and amazing ingredients in the mix, she would not be here today watching the car pull into the forecourt. A dirty blonde tart slid seductively out the cabin and strutted into the reception. A few minutes later Norman escorted her to the adjoining room; mother knew what needed to be done.

Norman watched the alluring figure of the beautiful blonde, as she slipped free of her clothes. Through the peephole, he saw everything and stifled a groan. Behind her, the steam from the shower flowed mystically into the bedroom. He was bewitched. As the woman climbed under the shower, a shadow moved over the scene. Norman’s blood turned icy in his veins. A frail and depressingly dark figure moved into his eye-line. As the skeletal face flashed a bony smile at him, he wished he had dressed her in brighter clothes; mother enjoyed being the princess of the party. The disjointed thought thawed his feet and he ran towards the door in the hope he may finally be somebody’s knight in shining armour.

Bursting into the bathroom, he watched as the woman’s eyes dimmed; her life draining down the plughole. His mother held the new corpse upright with one hand around her throat. “This is how you do it Sunny BOY,” she growled in her condescending tone as she dropped the knife and plunged her hand deep into the dead slut’s chest.

As mother chomped on the red and bloody heart, Norman stammered dejectedly, “Mother, what have you done?”

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