I wake up at four in the morning to the rattling of doors and windows. There’s no wind or stormy weather out there, only you. I can feel you next to me without having to see you. And I can definitely hear your voice coming before you even start talking. Like a vacuum sucking out all my happiness and tranquility. The natural signs of a coming tsunami. Or I should say, the supernatural signs of your coming.
I can take the apparitions, the glass breaking, and the floating sheets, but it’s your voice that drives me insane. (As in criminally.) I detest that condescending high pitch squeaky sound you make, telling me things I don’t want to hear. Things I never wanted to know or already knew and didn’t need to be reminded of. I will never marry, but I am not gay. I will pay my bills when I get to it. It’s really not your business if I masturbate a lot. I don’t need to take an umbrella with me on a sunny day. And yes, I brushed my fucking teeth today.
I brace myself for you. Once again, like every other night your dreaded presence arrives like clock work. And like clock work, it’s time for you to haunt me. And of all the things you can say because you know me better than myself, of all the words you can hurt me with, there’s only one that always chills my spine. That one word that blinds me with hatred, disdain, and anger:
I hear that word as I lie on my bed and a tray appears in front of me with rotten eggs and meat full of worms and a glass of liquid brownish- I don’t even want to know what that is. Every night I throw it away and beg you to stop. Listen to me! I will not eat your undead cooking. Not because poached eggs shouldn’t have hairs, eyeballs, or fungus coming out of them. Not because some of the stuff you give me to eat is more or less alive, but because I’m not hungry, okay?
I’M NOT HUNGRY!!!
It seems to me you will never leave the house. You will never rest as long as I live, because you don’t think I can live without you. Once again you come to orchestrate my world for me as you see fit. And even then- even when I follow your rules and do everything you ask, I still make you angry. The water in my sink turns to blood, headless dead cats scratch my bedroom door, rotting hands hold me to the walls. Children’s corpses hang from the ceiling singing that lullaby you used to whisper to me every night. All of that is punishment from you. I have to do things exactly as you ask, but your supernatural nagging will never cease.
I asked you in life and now I ask you in death: Don’t you have anything – ANYTHING!- better to do?
You are the haunting spirit of my failures and co- dependence.
Shriek and moan and whisper. Throw me headless cats and singing lifeless children. Torment me all you want. There will come a day when I’ll be able to rid myself of your phantom memory. On that day, I will think, and speak, and do as I need for myself. On that day, I will push my life forward and forward and further ahead without ever looking back. Only on your birthdays I will visit your grave and I’ll bring flowers. Probably a bouquet that you will not approve of. But every year I will stand on your grave and I will do my best to say in the most annoyingly sarcastic tone:
Mother, rest in peace.
And I will not change the dead flowers I left you the year before. Because even in death you need to learn that the world will not end if things are not as clean or tidy as you always need them to be. I will honor you by showing you how great my life is, doing the exact opposite of what you say.
Shriek and moan and whisper. Throw me headless cats and singing lifeless children. Torment me all you want.
In life, I wanted to love you, but you made me hate myself.
In death, I just want to forget you.