Thursday, April 14, 2016

Microstory 299: Perspective Seventy-Five

Perspective Seventy-Four

My little baby boy grew up too fast. He was so precocious, it was hard to keep up with him. His first word was when he was only five months old, and it was Albuquerque, I’m not lying. I think we were planning a family trip. Ever since then, he’s been ahead of the game in all respects. He “adopted” a doll, named him Alastair, and took as good care of him as any parent. He changed Alastair’s clothes everyday, pretended to feed him, and would even get up in the middle of the night, claiming that the baby was crying. He’s always been so loving, and I just knew that he would grow up to be a wonderful father. Unfortunately, he ended up suffering from other problems. He skipped three grades in elementary and middle school. The older children didn’t accept him, and the ones his own age didn’t treat him very well either. Since he was so much smarter than everyone, he couldn’t find a girlfriend. All he wanted his entire life was to raise a kid of his own, but there was no one there to help him make that happen. He tried to become a foster father, but they claimed he was “unstable” and “unfit”. He was heartbroken, so can you really blame him for taking matters into his own hands? Sure, the girls he liberated from their homes weren’t actually babies, but they needed his help. They were living under terrible conditions, and my son was able to provide better for them. My ex-husband’s brother died and left him an entire farmhouse, so room and resources were not a problem, even with the fact that this town’s employers are idiots and refused to hire my son for no good goddamn reason. Who exactly decided there was no value in a poetry degree?
Over the past year, people have often asked me if I knew what my son was up to. I told them the truth, that I did know he was taking in young girls who weren’t not being cared for properly in their own homes. I said that I didn’t know what he did with them once they had become too unruly, but the truth is that I did. I just didn’t want to admit it. My son was such a good boy. He wasn’t evil; he had his reasons, and he didn’t deserve to be brutally murdered by a trigger happy rookie cop who still gets to walk around carrying a badge. It’s disgusting. He gets to live happily ever after while my beautiful boy is in the ground. It took me all my effort not to sneak out of the cemetery and find the son of a bitch who ruined my life. I couldn’t do it, though, because then that’s what people would be talking about; the mother-son murderers. I couldn’t have that, but I also can’t bear to be without him any longer. People say that, when you die, you go to a better place, but how great can it be for a boy without his mother? I started hoarding my medication when the orderly stopped checking under my tongue. Tonight, on the anniversary of my loss, I can take them all at once. There’s a certain poetry in it that my son would love. I can’t wait to see his perfect smile again.

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