Mother was a strange woman and she raised an even stranger child. Mother used to tell me that goosebumps did not mean I was embarrassed nor that I was scarred, or that I had a horrible stomach ache that would turn into the most painful diarrhea. It meant a ghost was trying to posses my body or that flowers were growing inside me. I asked my mother to help me understand this most uncanny thought of hers and how to determine which was occurring in my body. ‘If you ever feel scared it is not fear you are experiencing but the passing of a ghost through your body. If you ever feel embarrassed or overwhelmed by the painful signs of diarrhea it’s only the growing of flowers you are experiencing.’ Mother raised a brave boy, to never feel fear but rather curiosity towards the unknown. She taught me that the things the mind does not comprehend are the once you should embrace. So one very faithful day I took I took a knife and cut my leg. Out of it no flowers sprouted, excepted for this red colored water.
I was merely seven years old, did not know any better, much less about the biological workings of the body that my mother so conveniently forgot to mention. I lived in a world of fantasy, created my this mad woman; still I cherish her mind o’ so deeply. ‘Mother, what is this red water that is coming out of my leg? I felt goosebumps and wanted to see the flowers sprout.’ Mother looked at me surprised, quite amazed then gave me that unique, peculiar sinister smile of hers. Who knows what crossed her mind at that moment, perhaps she was happy she gave birth to a curious boy. She looked for a needle and some thread and began to sow my wound. Little did I know this one would be the first of many.
When I was nine years old mother took me to the park, but not just any park, it was a park filled with blue butterflies. She knew I loved butterflies, they were everything I was not. Mother loved butterflies as well, they were everything she was not. ‘Your father used to bring me here whenever I was upset. Probably because when he met me I was here, crying over the loss of my own butterflies. Your dad returned them to my stomach.’ Mother told me butterflies were born inside your stomach and came out through your ears when your mind was in deep slumber. So one day I placed a jar next to my ear, I wanted my butterflies for myself. Little did I know that to give birth to butterflies one had to be under the evil spell of that things called love. ‘Mother, how come butterflies don’t come out of my ears when I’m asleep?’ Once more, mother gave me that sinister smile, the one she always shows me when she’s about to tell a lie or engage in one of her evil plans. That evil, vain woman took me to the cemetery that night. ‘See this grave here?’ ‘Yes, it’s father’s grave.’ ‘Well my dearest son, do you have any idea how your father passed away?’ ‘No, not at all.’ ‘You’re father sinned and sinners must be punished. He had the audacity to give butterflies to someone else. I couldn’t let him do that to us, now could I?’ The sinister smile of that mad woman warmed my heart in ways no one could ever comprehend. ‘So I took his butterflies away.’
It’s October 31st and I’m thirteen years old. My body’s full of stitches from all the times I tried to grow some flowers or find a way to get rid of my ghosts. My soul aches with burning sorrow from all the ghost that my soul have tried to borrow. I’m turning into a handful, mother can’t trick me as easily as she used to. Biggest mistake she did was provide me with an insane amount of books. Second mistake was homeschooling me. Third mistake was removing cable and making me watch creepy death and insanity related short films and horrors movies while still leaving me internet access. By the time I was fifteen it was I who had all the control, it was her little creation whom had become the sinister monster. It was my turn to write down the lies, to make HER believe all the lies my twisted mind could come up with. It was her turn to suffer insomnia and consume herself with paranoia. What was I going to leave on her bed this time, spiders? Snakes? Cockroaches? A dead rat? Or maybe a few mice? Perhaps a rat that has recently given birth? How about filling her room with crows? How mother hated those creatures. I thank Poe for that. Ever since dad was brutally murder by her bare hands she began seeing crows everywhere. According to her twisted mind they were haunting her; unlike her, crows were dad’s favorite bird.
I’m nineteen years old, no where near the place I was born and with no mother to call my own. I’m sad to say she has passed away by means of which are still unknown to me. I learned the hard way that flowers don’t grow inside you when you experience goosebumps and butterflies are not born inside your stomach when you fall in love. Although I can not reassure this for I have yet to fall in love, but from the mouths of others I can certainly say it was another of my mother’s lies. It is not the unknown that you must fear rather the person lacking lucidness claiming to know what’s best. It’s the misconception, as well, of the unknown that you must fear. That God is no greater nor righteous than the Devil. The bones of those murdered souls will not speak the truth of their deaths nor will their ghost try to borrow your soul. Your skull will crack if you hit yourself hard enough against a wall. Your mind is a powerful organ of which you must learn to control, otherwise it will have you seeing body parts dangling from fences. Sugar skulls are not made out of real eatable sugar and neither is bone marrow. You can’t marry corpses nor will they come to life if you place a ring on their bonnie finger. There is no such thing as Holiday Forest where by accident Halloween meets Christmas. Santa not only is he a myth, but he is not made out of candy cane. Death isn’t the bad guy like everyone tries to make you think, he is the most honest of the myths and legends running around; he doesn’t sugarcoat his intensions.
For all I know, the most convincing of all the theories I’ve heard about my mother’s murder is that some sick bastard cut off her arms and legs, sowed them on the opposite ends and threaded throned red roses all around her extremities. Cut open her stomach, removed her organs, sowed it back replacing the organs with dead butterflies. Cracked her skull and used her blood to write on the wall: If you hit your head hard enough against the wall you will crack your skull. Rumor has it that when her body was found that unique sinister smile of hers was painted all across her face. Knowing that sick bitch she must have died happy. Still, as twisted and fucked up as she was, I couldn’t love her more.
