Just Like My Mother

A mother and daughter resort to drastic measures to keep the man of the house from leaving the family for his mistress.

My grandmother says I am ill. Yes, I am ill, very ill. Slowly I am losing control of my mind, descending into madness. Grandmother can see it. She knows I do not have full control of my mind. An illness deteriorates my feelings, thoughts, and senses, except for sound. I can not stop hearing sounds. She thinks I was not justified in what I did. She thinks I was angry and something else took over. I was not angry! All I ever wanted was for him to stay.

It was her smell that triggered me. She is a garden of roses and lilacs and I hate seeing the smile on his face when he walks through the door with her scent. No, not scent. That stench; her stench. I had to purge him of that stench.

I know what you are thinking, but I am not mad. Madness makes one reckless, and I was not reckless. I did not kill him then. I did not kill him the next day either. At night I would watch him. It was harmless. When he was home in mother's bed he did not reek of the garden. He was as he should be. All was well.

Every morning I made sure he was still in place, stench-free, as he should be. He woke up to the smell of my mother’s warm breakfast, as it should be. I prepared his clothes and ran his bath, as a good woman does. I did everything right so he would not think of going to the garden. I did as a good woman should, just like my mother.

Mother was dying. The inevitable death of his loving wife was why he turned his gaze to the garden. It was as if the garden was comfort, my mother’s illness was his downfall, and our home was a painful reminder of his mortality.

It was a Sunday morning when he told me and mother he was leaving. I knew something was wrong when he said he wouldn't go to church. He was leaving mother �" his wife, leaving me �" his daughter, for the garden. My mother did not know how to respond and nothing was as it should be. She was a ghost. Outside the trees wept as their bodies turned to ash. The grass turned black and the sun disappeared. The house was filled with cracks and I was melting. 

Mother went into their bedroom. I watched her pack her clothes into a small bag. Her sickness was a burden, she said. She decided she would leave so my father would stay, then everything would be as it should be. But the illness pulled her strength away. Her bones and muscles shattered and screamed as she kissed the floor. She knew she was too weak to leave. 

Bringing her the pistol was not my idea but he needed someone to blame for his wife killing herself. He screamed and cradled her in his arms. His cries were deafening and full of burning agony. But was it not him who drove her to do it? My mother’s death was a tragic blessing. She killed herself to give him what he wanted: freedom from the responsibility of taking care of her. She also did it so he would stay with us, and stay he did, as it should be.

He continued to work the farm while I took care of the house and baby Robert, just like my mother. I was happy. He frowned most days and went deep into the woods wailing for my mother. But he stayed. He did not go to the garden, and the garden dare not come into the house. All was as it should be.

But one night when I left my room to watch him sleep, I heard a sound. He had not made their sound within mother's bedroom in over a year. He and mother had a loving relationship before the illness came. For years I listened to their sound. Months after the illness came, their sound stopped. Months after that, he started coming home smelling of the garden. That was when mother stopped speaking, and the light stopped shining through the window. All because of him and the garden.

Was he thinking of the garden now? I did not want him to go back to the garden. Mother ended her life so he would not go back to the garden. She did it so he would stay home. 

I was disgusted by his sound but I needed to stay and make sure he wouldn’t go to the garden. His sound went on for minutes, then came silence, but I could still hear it in my head. His sound was lonely and animal like. How could a man sound so pathetic?

When I opened the door, he was asleep. He was bare under the sheet, his masculine form shining like a lifeless work of art. I could not stop staring and thinking about his sound. How could a handsome man make such a grotesque sound? I climbed on top of him, staring down at his cold face. I placed my healing hands on his bare chest. His eyes shot open and stared blankly into mine. Neither one of us spoke, neither one of us moved, not for seconds or minutes. I could tell he was frightened. 

Eventually, I rested my head on his chest, replaying their sound in my head. My mother always had a beautiful voice. The garden could never compare. The sound he made with the garden reminded me of sirens and sharks. It would lead you to your death. It's not ironic that my mother is dead. As he and I laid together, I know he wondered if I would kill him. But I did not kill him then. I did not move until the sky lightened and baby Robert’s cries filled the house. Then I sat up. He stared at me, fear and hate in his eyes. But he could not best me, hate has been my best friend since 9. 

When I decided I would sleep in mother's bed, he did not protest. Most nights, he stared at the ceiling until exhaustion took him. Sometimes I did not sleep at all, too glamourized by watching him. His pain was very loud when he slept. He called them nightmares but I had never seen dreams so sweet. 

Have I not told you that my hearing is extraordinary? I can hear a low sound like a dying clock, the quick sound of a mouse, and the wind brushing against a leaf. It was nighttime, and I could hear a sound. He was not in bed, nor the kitchen. He was in the barn, and in the barn there was a sound. With every step I took this new sound grew louder and hungrier, like a beast. I had never heard such a desperate sound before. I was only 3 feet from the barn when I smelled the stench of the garden. I knew then why he was making that sound.

It was not my intention to take the knife. It was my intention to use the gun. But the knife! The knife looked so inviting, glistening on the counter. You have to understand. It called me over! It wanted to help, and the knife could fix everything better than the gun. The gun would have taken him away, just like my mother. But the knife could make him stay. The knife would make sure he never went to the garden again. So I grabbed the knife.

You have to understand. I am not evil. I only wanted him to stay. He was the one always making things difficult. We all did our part, my mother, myself, and baby Robert. He made things difficult! He was the villain, and he needed to be healed! It was the only way he would realize that he needed to stay and let go of the garden. I did it because I was so ill stricken with love, that idle idol love, just like my mother.

It was 4am when he returned to the house. It was still dark, not a sound for miles apart from the footsteps walking away from the barn. Her stench! He reeked of it when he came into the room. My back was facing him. He did not acknowledge me and it was not long until he fell asleep. My hand gripped the knife tighter. I could not breathe. All I could smell was the stench of the garden. It suffocated me!

It was easy tying up his hands and feet. He did not even stir when I gagged him. When I grabbed IT, he woke and stared at me, frightened. He saw the knife and struggled, pleading with me, “please, I’m sorry”. There were no words to say. I could barely breathe as the stench overpowered the room. As I held IT in my hand, I could feel fluid, filth from his sin with the garden. There were no words to say. He screamed a lot. I think baby Robert found it soothing because he never stirred. There was blood and pain, but I felt relief. He trounced like a fish and it was beautiful. What a dance! What life! And then he was still.

One of the neighbors had heard his cries and called the police. Three had arrived, unsuspecting of anything until they stepped closer and saw the blood on my hands.

They paused, and I told them to come in. I told them he was upstairs. I took them to mother's bedroom. My easy manner made the policemen worry. I opened the door, and they sighed in relief. Can you believe they were expecting a dead body!

My father was sitting upright, a bloody rag around IT. One of the policemen asked what had happened. His response was slow. “It’s my fault,” he cried. Damn right, it was his fault!

I proudly displayed IT for the policemen. They drew back and turned their heads in fright. One vomited, and the other ran outside. I got the mop, while baby Robert watched from his crib.

The policemen cry out why. My father looked at him briefly, then turned his gaze to me. For the first time in a long time the sun entered the house. I smiled. It smelled so lovely in the house.

After IT’s death, my father became a different person. He no longer went to the garden. The stench did not invade our home. It was the three of us, father, myself, and baby Robert, as it should be. My mother would have been proud. I slept peacefully with his arms wrapped around me in a loving embrace.

My grandmother says I am ill. She is here to take me away. A month of bliss has now led to this. He is staying but sending me away! He told her what really happened. He indulged me these last few weeks, all the while plotting my demise. The liar! 

That sound from the barn returns. That stench returns. My grandmother takes my arm, pulling me to the door. There they stand, my wounded father and his jezebel, with baby Robert in her arms. Neither of them speaks as I slither from my grandmother’s arms.

Why am I the one getting punished? It’s his fault I cut off his dick. I did it because he asked for it. My mother did everything for him and he was abandoning her and the life she gave him. He wanted to replace us with the first woman who spread her legs for him. Weak coward! He should have been sick. He should have put that gun to his head! It should have been him. Why am I the one getting punished?

My grandmother begs me to calm down. See reason, she says. Reason? What reason. No! I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I won’t stop. I will be the witch they have painted me and curse them all.

It’s his fault. He knows it. I know it. Robert knows as well. He thinks Robert won't remember. He thinks Robert won't punish him for ruining our family. He will. He will punish him. I know he will. I will make sure he will. And it won't be out of anger. No! He will do it out of love. Yes! He will punish our father out of love for our mother. Father's wife. His dead wife who killed herself so he wouldn't abandon his family. 

Yes, I will curse him. I will curse him for all eternity. He will never be happy even if he repents. His garden w***e will never give him life and the both of them will have everlasting pain. They both will rot in this land together. The land my mother built. The crows will keep them company until the red death takes them to hell. Yes! Be afraid father, be afraid jezabel, and never sleep peacefully again. Just like my mother. How hilarious and ironic. It's all hilarious. 

Yes, I am ill, very ill. Slowly I am losing control of my mind, descending into madness. I do not have full control of my mind because of him. The illness of love deteriorates everything, my body, my mind, my feelings, my thoughts, and my senses. This illness of love. This idle-idol love. Just like my mother.

© Eden Dawson, 2022

Author's Note

This is my first draft of this story which I wrote in inspiration of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart". Feedback appreciated to help me build on my skills.