The Good Mother

I fought it back, but my eyes opened anyway. The light of the morning sun in my bedroom.

“You’re awake now,” said the smallest voice, the same voice I hear every morning at my bedside. Now I fought the urge to cry out. I turned my head to face him, the nine- year- old boy with the face of an angel. And so I blinked, saying nothing. I never had to anyway, my son could read my mind.
“You will take your time this morning,” my son said to me as I continued to lie there, he pushed himself up off the edge of my bed and straightened his clothes. “You will be weaker than usual. You tried so hard last night,”
There came an amused giggle. I didn’t move, there came a pause. “Mother,”
“Yes,” I responded, my voice like dead flowers, dry and faded. And then he left my room.

My chamber maid would come in swiftly now, like every morning. I was sitting up against my pillows as she gazed at my neck and sighed. “A scarf is in order today,” she said simply and then she entered the enormous closet that held every garment and shoe you could imagine. It was the closet of a celebrity…only I wasn’t famous for the right reasons. There were no right reasons anymore, I thought to myself. I said nothing as I was dressed, as my long dark hair was brushed out and situated down my back and shoulders and my maid bustled about chattering endlessly to me.
“You’ll need to blink, Mother,” said the maid. “Your eyes will dry out, you know,”
I blinked as requested. She applied my makeup, she picked out my clothing, and then she applied cream to the scars down my arms, my wrists, on my ankles, the tops of my thighs, my stomach and chest. And then I realized she had paused and was staring at me, “What?” I asked.
“I asked you if it hurts?” she said patiently.
“If what hurts?” I replied, dazed.
“You’re neck, good Mother,”
My hand went up. Oh, that’s right, I thought, the contusions from the rope. I saw the jar in the maid’s hands.
“It doesn’t matter, Matilda,” I told her. I lifted my hair back and she came in with fingers full of cream to rub into my skin, when she was done, she tied a crimson colored silk scarf around my neck and left my hair to fall around it.
She smiled approvingly. “There now. You’re ready to meet the new day,”
I wanted to scream.

I met my son’s priest in the hall. He peered into my face with concerned eyes, “Again, Charlotte?” he asked me. I didn’t answer, yet somehow he caught the defiance in my eyes, eyes that I struggled to keep empty every day. He placed a hand on my shoulder, and it seemed to burn through my clothes. “You must stop this,” he whispered.
“What does it matter?” I hissed in return, peeling myself away from his touch.
“Then why continue? Do you truly hope that perhaps next time-” he didn’t finish. He knew the answer, and I would never speak such an answer. It is my hell, I thought.
“So then you are ready for today’s procession” he said, realizing it was no use to appeal to me. I nodded.

I have found it funny how subtle the changes are today. It is as if nothing truly has happened to the world in the last nine years. People exist, cars are on the roads, there is food, there is drink, there is music. Technology reigns higher than ever before. The image of man is worshipped now. If you have been in space all these nine years and just returned to earth, you wouldn’t quite see it. You wouldn’t quite see that it didn’t end like all the movies ever made said it would. When, on the brink of evil returning, good triumphed. You would see us, though, at the center of all things. We are the center of the entire world.
The parade through the town of my son’s birthplace is long and fills my heart with dread. I never know what is to be expected, only I know what is expected of me. I am to remain loyal in face, at least if not in heart and soul. They call me many names, The Good Mother, She…Eternal Vessel. I hate those names. In all my thirty-one years, I never imagined my life like this. And I would pray for God to help me….but…..
“I like your scarf,”
My son is looking down upon me now, from the throne of solid black granite that is carried by hundreds of people through the city. My throne is gold, and is carried as well. The rest of our household follows on horses. The people groan beneath him, and there are soldiers in black robes with guns and electric prods walking beside us, forcing them to move forward. These people carrying my son and I are Christian, Catholic, Protestant, Islamic, Seventh Day Adventist, Jewish, Baptist…any person still alive and crying in the name of the Lord God are put into slavery, even as they beg for death. Beyond the groans are cheering, people pushing in crowds to see us, throwing roses in our path.
“Hail, Lord!” they yell out to us. I look away as I watch some of them cut themselves with razors and smile in rapture. They beg sexual favors from him, men beg for unspeakable acts of violence, from my son! Women throw rags filled with their menstrual blood at me, asking for them to be blessed by the flaming inferno that is my womb. I do not look at them. I have no blessing. When I open my eyes, I see the sunlight pouring through the charred remains of what was once a beautiful cathedral, its stained glass windows, gone. I squeeze my eyes shut again in endless horror. This town is dotted with them, as I am certain the entire world is. Millions of people locked themselves in their churches, while I screamed and sweated, giving birth to my child. My son was born, and when he opened his mouth to cry, every house of God on the planet exploded into flames. So millions of people then died.
My son’s gaze is like a blow to my face, his voice in my head is like rumbling thunder. “You will look at your people, Mother,” I obeyed. They adore your tears, he says to me. They love your despair.

The morning turned into late day, and I passed from forced smiles to passive stares into nothing. At some point, I feel a needle thrust into my vein. Morphine; the only arms of solace I know. I feel myself give in, perhaps I was hysterical moments ago. I don’t recall….but now I’m dancing. Our guests tonight are former presidents, new politicians and people all over the world who have become rich because my son gave this planet their “true free will”. My son’s circle of priests are jackals, every one of them. Each are vying to replace my beloved husband, to be the one who is anointed with the powers of the fallen angels and put another child into me. They tell me: The king will need a queen, good Mother. And from your body she must spring. I am urged to long for this, to desire the amount of “pulsating orgasms” that a man full of lust might give me. But all I can remember is what happened to David after our son was born, and I can still hear his dying screams in my head.

“You’re pale, Mother,” someone says. I look up from the red wine in my cup. A woman in a black robe, they’re , was watching me. She smiled and cocked her head to the left and my stomach turned. So many people talk to me, thinking it a type of divine miracle that they’ve heard my voice. This is why I do not speak often. But this woman….
“Why are you here?” I whispered. The court of my son are enjoying their evening around me, but something about tonight is different….“It is Spring, Good Mother,” the woman said. “We are here to lead the sacrifice to our lord,”
My head spun. I had not been reminded of the date. I heard the woman mutter a prayer to me before leaving. I found my son’s face. “Finish your glass, Mother,” he said to me. And so I obeyed, tears coursing down my cheeks, mixing with my wine. An naked infant boy was being passed down the table. Everyone kissed its tiny manhood tenderly before passing it down to the next person, as if it were a bread basket. My son stood and everyone immediately hushed.
“I love Spring, “ he said. And they laughed. A robed woman brought him a beautifully designed dagger, its hilt glittering with emeralds. Through the blur of my misery, I watched a woman actually lick the child’s penis before handing it to the woman next to her, she looked at me, her smile is so innocent. I looked away and suppressed the urge to wretch. When everyone was finished with the baby boy, he was handed over to my son, and he placed the child on a silver platter before him.
“As we begin to enter the tenth year of my life, I wish all of you the power of your own creation -“ my son’s little voice rose up over the room.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, “Mother, its time you retired,” Matilda said softly. She helped me out of my chair, but my eyes were fixed upon my sons hands wrapped around that dagger.
“To life! Happy Spring to all,”
The child didn’t cry, but I waited until I heard everyone begin to cheer before I let out my screams.

I sat before my vanity mirror in my long silver satin slip, letting Matilda brush my hair. The morphine was ebbing from my body. By the time Matilda had excused herself from my room for the night, I had gone from numb to mind-chilling terror. Anguish filled my body, my scars ached. I sobbed, tearing at the sheets of my bed. I sent a chair through the window, but hearing it crash six stories to the ground didn’t take away the pain. This was my nightmare. This was reality. I had given birth to the anti-Christ, the purveyor of malice. They say my son has freed the world, but he has simply done away with order, and the obedience of what is right and good and just. The world is no different, they say, with or without evil. And I weep at the idea that they may be right. Where is God? Where have all the angels gone? What have I done?
I stand on my window pane, the jagged glass slicing into the soles of my feet, my hands, as I grip the sides. Please, I ask. Please take me away from here.
There are people in the courtyard, still enjoying the night. They look up at me, smiling at the vision of She in the window, a bleeding, sobbing vision of insanity. They raise their glasses of crimson to me, of the blood of Spring. They love my despair, I thought.
My eyes close, I let go, and embrace the feeling seconds later of my face smashing into the cobble stoned path, my neck severing, bones breaking through my skin upon impact. I feel it all, and I adore it. The only lust I have in my heart is for my own death……

I fought it back, but my eyes opened anyway. The light of the morning sun in my bedroom.
“You’re awake now,” said the smallest voice, the same voice I hear every morning. My son is perched upon my bed, and my window is repaired. “Took a lot out of me this time, Mother, “my son said, smiling, “you tried even harder last night,”.

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demons, fiction and flash