The Mother

It all started with the inheritance. $20,000 to be exact. $20,000 - the last ditch effort of a dying man to make an impact in the world, to force the memory of his name to remain. From what was gathered on him he had no friends, no one to mourn him, and no family… except one. Amelia Janette Henderson, a distant niece long forgotten in the family tree. The one name his lawyers could dig up after months of searching. It’s unlikely he ever knew of her existence but in satisfying instructions for the payment to be given to ‘the decreased estate’ she would do. Discovering her was one thing, locating her another, and what it lead us to no one expected.

The room was dark when we found him. The four magnolia walls were textured with years of damp and mould. They enclosed the small space creating a terrifying world of their own. Patches of green fuss protruded in multitudes across the uneven surface creating the illusion of monsters in the shadows. The singular light extension hung limply in the centre of the room. The lightbulb that once illuminated the room had at some point exploded. The jagged glass that still clung onto the light extension looking like teeth ready to devour. The remaining glass still lay on the ground in the centre of the room. No curtain hung from the high set window, instead the intricate webs from generations of spiders. The details of the each strand glowing various shades of orange, white and red from cars passing by, the occasional blue popping in here and there.

The floor was barren, no carpet, linoleum, or floor boards, just cold hard concrete. In the far left corner huddled on his side in a nest of his own waste was a little boy of barely eight. He was a scrawny little thing, just skin and bones. His eyes were wide saucers, they were open and alert. His eyes appeared to be black bottomless pits but when the light of passing cars outside caught them you could see they were an ice cold grey, like the grey sludge that remains the day after it snows. His eyes were so sunken back in his head it was unnerving. He resembled more of a golem than a man. Stains from years of tears clung to his cheeks. A tangled mess of hair, dust, and waste cascaded around the boy's shoulders. He looked like a wild feral animal. The only visible trace of food in the room were stale crumbs of something that had long since rotted. Even so the boy's tongue was protruded out of mouth in the direction of the crumbs. He had been licking the crumbs off the floor. There were still wet marks on the floor from where he had been licking before our arrival. We had disrupted him in the act.

We were all shocked, us for finding a child in such a state and the child from the entrance of unknown strangers. His eyes somehow grew wider and a small whining sound started to emit from his tiny frame. He was scared. What was worse was the stench of the body fluids and excrements from the pile that lay behind him. Years of faeces half as high as the child himself. His urine had softened the faeces into a mud like substance. His back was huddled towards it from warmth. The man to my right suddenly vomited, it was unprofessional but he couldn't help himself. It took him by surprise as much as it did us. Whether it the stench that caused him to vomit or the sight I couldn't say but either way it was an improvement to both. Despite the sour undertones the vomit had a sickly sweet warm smell to it that added something pleasant to the room. A faint smell of cinnamon lifted the room. Cinnamon buns.

The little pleasantness that was added was soon negated when the child instinctively threw himself forward and starting eating the vomit. Both palms spread out on the bare concrete, mouth in the vomit, gulping it like some thick broth. I turned my head unable to bear the sight. As I turned I could see it registered on the face of every man, woman and body in the room. A new level of disgust none of us knew existed. I could see it in the man's throat, the outline of the vomit travelling up his oesophagus, a second round of vomit. Not wanting to subject the child to more degrading humiliation he was fighting to force it back down. His cheeks swelled as he tried to contain it in his mouth. He was struggling as it started to leak down from his bottom lip to his chin, droplets hits the ground. The child inched forward, his eyes yearning, to him it was like a gift.

“FOR GOD'S SAKE MAN, GO OUTSIDE!” someone shouted.

The man ran out vomiting in the hallway outside the room. These were trained professionals, men and women who had been equipped to deal with any situation, hardened people, who had witnessed some of the worst things imaginable and stared them in the face. But nothing could prepare anyone for this.

The child ran back to the corner. His back against the faeces, he sat on his bottom, knees up and arms crossed around his legs, gently rocking himself, as if he had been punished. Another man stepped forward, he was visibly trembling. Rage, concern and confusion all visible on his face.

“Where the hell is his mother" he asked not knowing how to handle his emotions.

The child immediately stopped rocking and looked up at us. A sudden spark appeared in his eyes, life appeared in his face. And for a split second he almost resembled a happy child. Before he stared into emptiness but now his gaze was fixated somewhere distant that only he could ever see. To the shock and relief of everyone in the room he spoke;

“My Mother is the most beautiful, loving, and kindest person in the world. She has hair as black as night, grey sparkling eyes, and the warmest smile. She smells as sweet as honey and gives the best hugs.”

At first his voice was course and rough but as he continued his voice softened and grew more affirmative.

“My mother is as soft as a pillow, she is so nice and loves me very much.”

The room fell silent.

Seconds later the silence was disrupted by loud clattering followed by swearing and shouting. In from the hallway walked a drunken mess of a woman. A blend of cheap perfume and alcohol wafted in waves into the room before she did. In all honesty the room could hear her before they saw her. Her face was a hot red burnt from years in the sun. Her top was cut so low it left nothing to the imagination, it was cut short right under where her breasts should have been. Instead her breasts sagged halfway down her torso. Her jean hot pants reached only half way down her butt cheek revealing the other half for whoever wanted to see the sight. Her hair was fried with years of bleach and blonde hair dye. Every shades of yellow protruded at different lengths and variations from her head. The jet black roots of her hair offset the random blondes. Her makeup was thick and sloppily done. It was smeared all over her face and heavily smudged. Her eyes were grey pits of distain.

“Who the fuck opened the door” she bellowed.

She was a mess.

Years later, in his mid-teens, I heard the boy was discovered dead in the same small room he was found. Beside him was a small black book, well more of a journal really. Inside were the same words repeatedly scribbled every corner of every page - She loved me. And on the cover simply written in a white marker it read - Mother.