It was a day like any other. The night sky was a murky blue, the trees were a'whistlin, and the wind whipped at my clothes with a cool and strong force. The brush beneath me crunched softly as I walked towards The Grove. My trusty beagle Goldie was by my side, as always. He liked coming here even more than I did. He would wait near the front door each afternoon until it was time to leave, and when I was a moment tardy, he would glower at me with forlorn eyes while I pulled my keys from the inside of my gossamer jacket, which I always left on the hook nearest to the door. When we got outside he would stroll leisurely through The Pathway, sniffing the air and pissing on everything in sight, as if he owned the place. Countless birds and foul would have the fright of their lives as he rushed at them, intent on catching his prey, menacing as a dog usually is to a smaller being.
Seldom was it that he actually caught one, but I think the thrill of the chase was what did it for him, not the end result of a dying body between his jaws. Whenever he caught something, he would almost always release it immediately, though there
were
a few times when his animal instincts took control of the situation. I remember one time a rat came across our path -- fat, ugly, something wet glimmering on her disgusting cheeks. This wasn't anything out of the ordinary, since it certainly wasn't the first rat we'd come across on our travels to The Grove. But there was something about
this
rat that drove Goldie beyond reason. To put it simply: he went absolutely fucking nuts. I could swear that his mouth may have even foamed for a moment, giving me quite a scare later as I reflected on this suddenly and unexpectedly, remembering how his mouth had had something (it was definitely
something)
in it, something that I had never seen before. Something that I would take care to never see again, honestly. I chalked it down to...momentary foam. Speaking truthfully, I don't know what the fuck it was.
Regardless, he went absolutely fucking nuts and slaughtered the rat; and I don't take the term
slaughtered
lightly. I even started thinking of the whole fucked-up thing as "The Massacre at Cheeseville". I imagined countless newspaper headlines chronicling the whole thing, like, "Mayor Mouse brutally attacked on Swiss Street". Very creative, I know.
It happened a couple of other times too, but not nearly as bad as the nationally celebrated/mourned "Mayor Mouse Mourning Day" (which happens to be a phrase I found on a popular adult swim show featuring raunchy talking animals). I tried to block the event out of my mind, making concerted efforts to just not think about it. Unfortunately, some things you can never forget. I could only hope that it wouldn't happen again.
When I was a boy, my father always told me that the weak could never win in life, that viciousness was the only antidote to the world. It was never clear to me why he gave me said advice, but watching Goldie tear up that rat, years later, I finally understood: The world
was
viciousness. You had to fight fire with fire. That was the only way to survive, heck, the only way to thrive, even. Maybe I didn't want to admit that to myself, but the truth was always there -- in the back of my mind. Disturbing, sure, but enlightening as well? You bet your sweet ass.
When I was in The Grove, none of that seemed to matter. I would recline back against the soft surface of the earth's floor, a song from twenty years past playing quietly in my head, my mother's face swimming before my eyes. I would remember her as I last saw her: Resting peacefully amidst the circumstances of her imminent death. It was the cancer that took her, and before I could understand what was even happening, it was time to make funeral arrangements. It was the worst time of my life, but when I thought about her in The Grove (which was the only place where I
could
think about her), it was all I could think about. The memories would flow through me, unabashed, until I'd had enough of them, and when I reached my limit, Goldie would never fail to notice. He'd trot over to me from wherever he'd been, prod me with his cute, wet nose, and bound off, hurrying towards The Pathway. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that it wasn't the living nightmare I was used to, that memories were nothing tangible. Only mirages and mirrors of the past that I tried to forget.
But not hard enough, clearly, for I continued my travels to The Grove time after time, destined to find my mother's ghost in every shadow and stir of the wind. Do you know what's really interesting though? I never hated it. Not once. The only time I was truly alive was when I was there, visiting with the dead inside of my mind. I never wanted to be done with them (
her)
and I knew that if I ever truly left The Grove for good, the connection would be lost.
I was never going to leave of my own accord. It would take something of truly magnanimous proportions to draw me out from my desperate routine. It wasn't just for my sake that I continued it either; Goldie would be devastated if we stopped coming. The Grove was his place just as much as it was mine. It gave both of us a reason to get up in the morning.
Which brings me back to the seemingly routine trip that Goldie and I made to The Grove, on that seemingly innocuous evening. Like I said earlier, it started out like any other time. Weather? Same. Trees? Swinging crazily from the force of the wind as always. Grass around The Pathway? Dead per usual. My soul? That was dead too.
It had always been a short walk to The Grove, but that day's walk was quicker than the others Goldie and I had taken. We were there in practically no time at all. I slid slowly down onto my ass near the base of an alder, while Goldie left to do some exploring. Immediately when I closed my eyes, I was taken back to a different time. I was sitting at The Dining Room Table with my mother, cards splayed out in front of us. She was smiling and nodding, as if I had just said something that she could relate to. I turned in my seat and looked behind me, but there was only darkness and splotches of light. I reached out towards it, leaning over the edge of my seat in a reckless fashion. But the farther I reached, the more it pulled away from me.
I let my arm drop to my side. I turned back towards my mother, giving her an accusatory look, as though it were
her
fault that I couldn't reach the darkness and splotches of light. She shrugged in that adorable way she had -- whole body heaving up and down to complete the motion. I was beginning to sweat profusely. Something seemed a little bit off.
I gave my mother a closer look. She was looking as beautiful as ever, her wide-set eyes accentuated with eyeliner and "just a dab of mascara" (one of her favorite expressions). Her neck was smooth and attractive, her lips were rich and juicy. She looked like a model of perfection to me. Even her hair had returned, cascading handsomely down her shoulders to rest on her bare back.
She was wearing a lowcut backless dress -- a muted red one that she used to wear all the time when she and my father were still together. It totally accentuated her breasts, and laughter bubbled in my throat as I remembered how, as a small child, I would always stare open-mouthed at her chest whenever she wore it. My first introduction to breasts came in the form of this red backless dress, and I became so curious and confused that I started sidling up next to her in her bed late at night, hoping to look at her breasts a little more closely. After doing this for a while, I became so bold that one night, in a fit of madness, I reached over and carefully tapped one. Nothing seemed to happen, so I did it again. Unfortunately, the result was the same.
I ended up stopping my investigations into the nature of my mother's breasts because I didn't really know how to go about them (
maybe there was something else I was supposed to do other than just...tapping her breasts?)
. It seemed unlikely that I would ever figure it out.
I didn't stop thinking about her breasts, though. They were always an object of fascination for me, being that they were literally the most perfect breasts north of Beaverton. Heck, probably north of Mexico. Not only were they perfectly round and scrumptious-looking, they were also a perfect shade of white that bordered on pale.
Any significant movement would make them bounce. I nearly had an aneurysm one morning when I looked out the window and saw her on her way back from a jog. She was trotting towards the house and her breasts were doing jumping jacks in an incredible fashion -- they were practically spilling out of her shirt. I had to tuck my manhood to the side, as it had started to stick straight up.
I often had to do that when I was around my mother, especially as I got older. She loved showing off her breasts in all different kinds of outfits, even if she was only showing them off to me. Around the house she would walk around in lingerie, or sometimes, nothing at all (albeit, she only did that when she
thought
I wasn't at home). It was exhilarating for me to see her like this, and probably exhilarating for her to be seen like that. Sometimes I would even try to one-up her by walking around in my underwear. The great thing about doing that was how
easy
it was for her to notice my cock, particularly when I was stiff as a flag pole -- several times I saw her looking at my cock through the lining of my undergarment, trying to be discreet but failing miserably. When I saw her doing this, I would adjust my positioning to emphasize my cock to the fullest extent, so she could get the best possible look at it.
I even let the head of my penis peek out over the top of my underwear from time to time. She and I would both pretend that we weren't aware of it, though she made it pretty obvious how drawn to it she truly was. If I was on the couch, she'd sit across from me with a book or magazine, sparing my penis-head brief glances over the top of her literature. When she felt especially ballsy she'd sit next to me and graze the head of my penis with a hand or thigh when she shifted in her seat. She even
grabbed
it one time. I won't get into all the details, but I will say that it involved a good deal of intentional stumbling and falling.
Still, I could never bring myself to masturbate to her, or include her in my fantasies. For me, it felt like going a step too far. I did have fun with her in real life, sure, but that was different. I can't adequately explain how, but it was. It really fucking was.
Seeing my mother in The Grove as the healthy, beautiful person she was prior to her diagnosis, I felt the familiar, innocent twitch in my pants. I let my eyes wander back to her breasts, urging my cock to its full length. I wanted to get back to how things were before, when she was healthy and amazing and I was young and full of life. It seemed to me that The Grove was finally giving me everything that I wanted for the first time, and boy, was I ready to take advantage.
My mother was still smiling at me, her stark white teeth presenting a contrast to the tan skin on her face. She leaned forward. Her bosom spilled out of her dress and onto the table, and I watched greedily as her nipples quickly hardened. She covered her mouth with a hand, stifling a giggle. Her eyes were apologetic and shy as she rearranged her breasts back into the dress.
My cock was throbbing like Nobody's (
Nobody
was a person that battled a cyclops, which is something
they
don't tell
