spontaneous… a story

Walter couldn’t speak lately, dumbstruck most of the time he was set about to interact with anyone else other than his mother, but she died recently without a single word that anything was troubling her. They had lived or existed together with such casually-intimate time around each that the other lost all pose of decency, and mother had always kept a very sanitized and prescriptive life of rules and regular tongue-lashings to her overweight son to accuse or subtly exaggerate neutrality into moments of that intolerable clarity only women seemed to share in Walter’s mind, to which she would be of no or only cold sternness instead any outward place of loving demeanor for her now adult child if to direct him to feel as inferior as possible especially compared to her presence. So Walter, living as this submissive extension to his mother’s will, kept on chugging away in over-sized growing pains broken by social stigma early on as weight issues began and swallowed a big part of the rest of his life as further enhanced dramatically by mother’s constant negative probing utterly distorting her son’s confusing journey of growth. Taken as token truth yet a cliche to found a simple but empty lifestyle stranded by commercial triggers and consumerist marketing circuits leading to a largely humbled young man into the obese quiet man-child of now left sadly questioning what he was to do next, watching the body of his mother slowly sinking within the previously dug out hole little over six feet deep in sickening moments that he never thought would come until today. A little hollower inside with each inch lowered as reminder of his rapidly lost childhood invested with the age and anguish never fully expressed until the sudden period where mother is dead, what now? He walked to the bus from the grave, to a slow and graceful step to his unspoiled innocence, and until just seconds ago as totally undecided trigger to go to the store to buy as much food as he could to bury his mother properly. Under dirty bowel-destroying depictions of massive colonial outbursts most gaseous, and resonating with a smirking bravery encased ‘do not touch’ glass boxes, but is touched to broken as then threat of chaotic collapse in vomit and bodily sickness wasting anyway he wishes. Fluids like piss and vomit then shit bathing him in some kind of excremental new death classically-obsessed yearning out of hypocrisy from hopelessness and grief. He had wished more from her like a greedy form of genetic parasite as if sprouting teeth razor-sharp any moment as a baby and tear into his poor dead mother’s flaccid breast for blood as much as milk blackened and pus-laden from all the stored up hatred she had for her own son. Pushing as he suckled voraciously, the vile fluids gushing into his waiting stomach through his heavy face as he grinned wicked and shamelessly wide with the flowing bad blood and rancidity filling his mouth squirming through the gaps in his teeth from improper hygiene, and now cold and sweaty from the stray bad dream. He groped in the stink of sick and darkness terror-struck in suddenly waking on the floor gasping for air, choking out screams to awaken from the nightmare though too set on the pity party for himself to have noticed how hot the room was or remembered the dream in its grotesque details. Now however he was awake and restless under thick still=spilling sweat from out pores to be bathed in yet another foul liquid of his, soon deciding to get out to put a breath of fresh air inside after staring himself down in the bathroom mirror berating himself like his mother always used to do stopping only when it was his mother staring at him instead, and still sweaty and shaken reassured himself it was only a mirage or something that was left after the dream. He then thought he had heard a cat young and mewling outside his window and left the apartment to look for it as quickly as he could, even though his clothes were still a mess, but for the escape from the painful memories was blessing enough for him. After rushing to the nearby alleyway and spotting the cat’s tiny dark frame against the dim light of the alley, he again returned to the wine bottle that his mother would regularly sip from a glass a night sometimes fueling the tension as they arose around whatever mother wanted him to do next, but he had to dig for that sick sour wine because she would often hide it from him when as a young teenager then dealing with school and hormonal pressures had found it and drank the whole thing. This lead him to getting horribly nauseous to to physical illness much like what had occurred a few hours prior to searching for the cat, but once he got back outside to try and lure the animal he restarted the quest for the bottom of the bottle while making sure that even with his size that the cat would not be threatened by him, the bottle now empty and he had the creature in his arms after talking it up with slurred word therapy letting his heart unburden itself at his new friend. Once success was his, he gently lifted his new pet that he considered the cuddliest friend he had ever wanted, and as soon as they were back in the apartment sitting in his mother’s chair lulled into a comfort he had never known before petting and holding the sweet animal though the alcohol had dulled his sense of common judgment ignoring the cat’s cries for food and instead became very slow and as snoring when also slightly drooling upon it’s head in a light stupor. He woke with a start in the dark, feeling no sensing so much was randomly getting worse somehow, but he retained the image of his cat darting away from his arms suddenly as he awoke to the hot pain in his limbs and screaming as animal burning alive in fierce and extreme panic. All that was soon lost to the flames licking up the melting fat like honey, memories and wine as the cat disappeared finding escape from the apartment out of a window amidst the city sounds of sirens and emergency, and Walter was by now with eyes frozen wide with fear as everything in the tiny home caught fire while screams were fading into the conflagration.

Posted by deaconKhet on December 12th, 2019 in story archives, Tales From the Ripped. You can leave a response or trackback from your own site.

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