Lie Mother Lie Son

She had slammed the door, causing the glass candle holders on the sill to tinkle loudly. With that whoosh of air, she was gone. Gabriel came only seconds afterward, leaning his lithe frame against the coolness of the sink. His skin felt like it was on fire, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. His wrist had cramped in protest from his vigorous movements, and he rotated it gingerly, listening to the joints grind. He wasn’t sure what to make of what had just happened, and he found it difficult to think at all, his head foggy from his orgasm. All he wanted was to slide down the wall and lay bonelessly on the rug.

He realized hazily that he’d come all over the cabinets below the sink, the creamy substance looking out of place on the black paint. Some had even landed on the floor in small, but thick globs. He grimaced, and despite his urge for laziness, he washed his face in the basin, flicking the icy water onto his slightly reddened cheeks. She was angry and disgusted, that much was clear. The thought made him shudder, a strange wave of self-hatred tainting his perverse afterglow. He was as confused by his own reaction as he was hers.

There was little that could be done. She’d seen him, and he’d more or less jerked off in front of her. He still didn’t know what the hell he had been thinking. Who just masturbates in front of their mother like that? The logical normal thing to do would have been to stop, look ashamed, yank up his jeans, and make a run for the door. But instead he had looked her right in the face like a challenge, and kept right on going. He didn’t want to think about the fact that whatever low opinion she had of him had just plummeted tenfold. Again, that strange stabbing sensation of inner disgust ravaged his gut, and the coldness of fear that had momentarily fled, returned.

Gabriel straightened up, messily running his fingers through his lank, slightly damp hair. The bathroom stunk of his sweat, and the heat certainly wasn’t helping anything. He wasn’t going to think about it; he wasn’t going to think about her, he decided, trying not to see the slight similarities between his own features, and hers.

After he’d cleaned up his mess and put his clothes back on, he had made his way back to the kitchen somewhat apprehensively, though feeling somewhat sated by the cool air on his skin. His clothes were sticking to him a little, but he was too jittery to bother with a shower. He figured she would have gone back to her office rather than stick around, but it paid to be cautious. She rarely spent time in any of the other parts of the house, preferring to be alone than in the company of her own family. Late at night, she went into the basement and did god knows what. His stomach leapt when he saw her dark figure looming over the unfinished homework he had left in the kitchen.

Great, he though irritably, pulling his shirt down out of habit. That’s just terrific.

“I see you found better things to do than finish your work like I told you to,” she said, looking up. She held up the book she had taken from him, her fingers pushing into it so hard that her knuckles had gone white. Even her long, perfect nails were digging into the soft outer binding, as though damaging it would somehow damage him. “Where did you get this?”

“The internet,” Gabriel answered truthfully, somewhat concerned but refusing to let it show. “You’re not very good at hiding your writing style,” he commented, deciding to come clean. “Seems pointless to use a different penname.” He couldn’t help but smirk at her when she took a few steps closer, her expression dangerous. Despite his grin, he felt like his stomach had evacuated into his throat.

This is it, thought the logical part of him hopelessly.

“What were you doing in the bathroom?” she questioned, catching him off guard entirely.

“Reading,” he answered automatically, unable to suppress the smile that was relentlessly pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I thought that was pretty obvious.”

He knew he should have been more cautious, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. If he was going to screw this up, he was going to do it all the way, and with a smile. He was tired of losing to her, and to top it off, she was paying attention, even if it was negative, and that was enough for him. He hated how fucked up she had made him. The anger that always accompanied this revelation quickly began roiling with the childish need for her to focus on him.

“You know what I’m talking about,” she persisted. He searched her face for some sign of how she felt, but he could find nothing. He wasn’t sure how to take that.

“I was taking advantage of a book,” Gabriel answered. “Why, do I need to tell you when I do that too?”

She slapped him hard enough that his head was turned to the side by the force. It stung, and more than just his cheek. She had been doing it more and more frequently, but he found that instead of enraging him, it caused his cock to twitch in interest. He should have been pissed at her. He hated her. He knew underneath all the other bizarre feelings he had for her, that it was all founded in loathing of the purest variety.

He grabbed her by the wrist, hard enough that he could hear the delicate bones creak. Even holding her by the arm was somehow pleasant, sending strange little sparks through him that pooled in his groin. He felt like his body was trying to connect with hers, even if it meant pain. His mother’s look became ugly very quickly, twisted with a malice that he rarely had the opportunity to witness. She only reserved it for the lowliest of scum, as far as he had seen. All it proved was that she hated him, he knew she did. She’d made it obvious from the start, and somehow, it hurt, even after years of accepting it. He hated the power she wielded so mercilessly, so cruelly. Her tiniest barb toward him so easily became something of a mortal wound that left him even more vulnerable.

“What did I ever do to you to make you hate me so much?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from wavering. “Is it just that I exist? Is that it? Are you sorry I was born at all?”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” she ordered, prying her arm from his grasp none too gently. Her long nails dug mercilessly into the skin of his own arm, hard enough to leave marks. He made no attempt to stop her.

“I think I deserve to know why. At least give me that.”

That seemed to set her off, for she released his arm as though his very flesh were repugnant. “Finish your fucking homework,” she said sweeping passed him. “And get a damn haircut,” she added over her shoulder.

The next several days were tenuous at best with his mother. She had been in the basement for the last two, which was hardly what could be considered an improvement. His father had even expressed concern over her absence, quietly admitting that she hadn’t been to bed either. She must have kept a small fridge down there, because he had seen her buy things that never ended up in the family cabinets. Most of it was liquor and snack foods, both of which he’d never seen her imbibe. He knew she drank however, as he had smelled it on her breath many times before. She was, what many would consider, an alcoholic, though Gabriel tried not to think of it that way.

Izzy was being even more irritating than usual, buzzing around the kitchen in another one of her frilly dresses and poking their father, who was trying to arrange dinner. David was gone most of the day, but came home in the evenings. With their mother in the basement, Gabriel had been unwillingly left to tend to Izzy, though he had mostly ignored her, even resorting to going to his mother’s office and locking the door just to keep away from her. Izzy had sat outside the door and cried, which hadn’t impacted him in the least. She was a spoiled little brat, so he couldn’t figure out what on earth she had to cry about. It had been a relief when their dad had come home, easily falling into the role of caretaker.

“Did Claire come out today?” David asked his son, looking up from what his was cooking.

“What do you think?” Gabriel muttered, eyes focused on the television above the island.

His dad made no response to his sarcasm, instead paying attention to the chattering Izzy, who was trying to show him her dingy, stuffed bunny.

Dinner was noisy, with Izzy conversing with her stuffed animals, which wouldn’t have been allowed at the table had their mother been present. Their father was less concerned about such things, and rarely denied the youngest child whatever she wanted. Gabriel watched her, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. He pushed his food around his plate, as he often did. Finally, too bored to carry on the charade, he took his plate to the kitchen and scraped everything into the garbage, trying to tune out the sounds of his little sister asking ‘where’s mommy?’ over and over again in her gratingly childish voice. It only took a few more proclamations before he could stand it no longer.

“She hates you and she’s never coming out again,” he said, smiling at Izzy as he came around the island.

“Gabe, what did I tell you about talking to your sister like that?”

Gabriel only rolled his eyes and kept walking. He should have gone to his room---that was where he intended on going---but soon enough he found himself at the short, dark staircase that led to the door of the basement. He’d never been inside, not even once. He did know that there was even a bathroom down there (which meant she could probably live down there for weeks if she truly wanted), and that was only because they had redone the plumbing several years back in most of the house, and his mother had been quite belligerent about the entire thing, as it had involved strangers coming into her private room. Even then, he had not been able to catch a glimpse, though it wasn’t from a lack of trying. Mostly he just feared getting caught, which was why he hadn’t resorted to breaking the lock or something equally obvious.

He swore he could smell incense at times, particularly late at night. There was music too, sometimes strange, haunting piano tunes, and other times heavy metal. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it, though whatever she happened to be listening to was usually loud enough for him to hear through the door. Like her, he was mostly nocturnal, rising late in the day for the most part, then spending most, if not all of the night awake---when he wasn’t in school. She was different though; he knew she rarely slept. There were times when she looked positively haggard and her temperament was even worse than usual. There would be dark circles under her eyes, then a week later she would be back to normal, as though the shadow over her had finally passed.

At first he thought she was writing, but she spent hours in the office upstairs everyday doing that, so it seemed unlikely. She didn’t like to be interrupted and almost always had the door locked to the office, but he had gone in a few times and seen her in front of the keyboard, working on her next book. He had learned at a very young age to leave her be when she was in the middle of something, not that he bothered her much in the first place.

What was she doing down there? He wondered. He held his breath, listening intently. Hearing nothing, he ventured closer, thankful for the plush carpet on the steps that absorbed his footfalls. He pressed an ear to the door, heart beginning to thrum eagerly in his chest. He narrowed his eyes, at what he heard. He’d snuck to the door before a few times, but he’d always heard either music or voices like she was watching a movie.

Moaning. It was distinctly moaning. The pleasurable kind. There was also the light, airy sound of classical, almost too low to be heard---was it Pachelbel? He tried to recall the name of whatever or whoever it was, but failed. He has always hated classical. His mother had forced him to listen to it as a small child, which meant all car trips with her had been filled with the quiet tinkling sounds of a piano and one of its melancholy tunes. It was just another of those small memories that had stuck with him, of his mother being perpetually in a state of distance from everyone. Even her music was antiquated, like she purposefully was making an attempt to not fit in, giving others more things to not have in common with her. Or maybe it was an elitist thing, he didn’t know.

He swallowed nervously, his hand slippery on the door as he continued to listen, pressing his ear even harder to the cold steel that was covered in peeling green paint. There was a grunt, distinctly male. Gabriel raised an eyebrow, pulling away slightly. He smiled to himself, feeling an erection stirring to life in his too-tight jeans. She was down there watching porn. Was that what she always did? Did she use the music to cover it up? It had to be pornography, there was no mistaking the sounds, which went on for several minutes. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the door, the thought of her with her legs splayed apart, fingers rubbing at her wet little slit too tempting to abandon. He wanted to touch himself right there, but thought better of it, even though the confines of his pants were becoming too much to bear.

He waited, hoping to hear her, but there was nothing. Her voice was distinctive, and he imagined he’d be able to discern one of her lovely sounds from anyone else’s, even a loud television. He was worried he would get caught, though not half so much as he should have been since she had already seen him with her book. She had been mad about it, but she hadn’t done anything drastic, like take his things away. It was safe to assume she had been disgusted, but he supposed that was better than her being completely enraged. He never expected her to reciprocate his feelings as it was.

It was wrong, he knew it. Had always known it. He wasn’t supposed to want his mother, and even years after using her as a main reference point for nearly every sexual fantasy he’d ever had, he still felt dirty afterward. The shame would drench him in its clammy embrace, and at times, particularly late at night when he was in bed recovering from an orgasm, hot tears would slip down his cheeks. He’d go to sleep cursing himself, and cursing her for turning him into some sort of freak. She didn’t even have to do anything for the thoughts to slip into his conscience, slithering like an unwelcome snake under his iron door of control. It always got through, no matter how hard he tried to replace thoughts of her with someone, anyone else.

His first fuck had been a disaster for him, and every subsequent one since then. He had even managed to get a night with one of the petite blonde cheerleaders who had always sneered at him in public. He’d thrown her on the bed and taken her violently, pushing his hard cock as far inside of her as it would go, until he bottomed out, all the while trying to look at her pretty face covered in too much makeup. But it would soon blur, then he’d see his mother, just like he always did. He’d see her lying beneath him, smiling that cruel, horrible smile of hers, clutching at his sides for once, pulling him toward her, desperate for his contact. It had been so bad his first time that he had started shaking, fighting the sting of tears that were biting at the corners of his eyes. He had been forced to stop. No amount of pounding the willing body beneath him could block out the image or the terrible feeling of betrayal that coiled around his heart and his limbs, making him feel paralyzed. He had pulled out, probably looking terrified and disgusted, he imagined. He had yanked on his jeans so quickly that his lay didn’t even have time to respond properly.

Gabriel still hated himself for how weak he had been, and the girl had been less than secretive about it. It had gotten around that he had broken down during sex, gone soft before it had even began, and he’d been forced to spend much of his time afterward building an exterior attitude that kept people away. He learned to fuck girls on their stomachs, and from his mother’s books he learned to sodomize them as swiftly and harshly as he could, until they were nothing more than a bundle of crushed nerves beneath him, crying out in that gibberish that only made sense in the middle of intercourse. He loved it and he hated it. He learned quickly to just go with it. He came faster and harder when he thought of his mother, and within a few bouts of sex he was able to enjoy the fantasy with few ill feelings, at least during the act itself. Afterward was a different story, but he had developed ways to handle it. It was fucked up, he knew it. It had become so complicated and nearly unbearable, that there were times he could scarcely live with himself.

His mother haunted him, and he couldn’t seem to get away from her. It had been a slippery slope to give in, and his strange hatred and infatuation had only increased with time. Opening one door seemed to always lead to another, until he was so buried in his fantasy that he didn’t know the way back. It was so wrong. God, it was wrong. The fact that she hated him only made matters worse. He had even fantasized at times about sneaking into bed with her before his father got home, and fucking her in the dark where she couldn’t see him and he might be able to get away with it for five minutes if she was groggy or drunk enough. He had never developed the nerve, too cowed by the thought of what would happen afterward. If she were to look at him with even more disappointment, he didn’t think he could stand it. Their relationship was almost non-existent as it was.

He managed to drag himself away from the door when he realized the sounds had stopped. He felt worse than ever suddenly, his mood considerably darker from his recollections. He needed to give up on it, but somehow he couldn’t. The fact that she had walked in on him masturbating was such a turn on that it had been the source of his dreams every night since. Gabriel had always left the door unlocked. Always. He had wanted her to see him for longer than he cared to remember, and she finally had. He had been self-sabotaging, and he knew it. Truthfully, it hadn’t gone as terribly as it could have. He had been wondering for the last few days what she had done with his book, and if even a small part of her had been flattered by his using it.

No chance in hell, he thought bitterly.

On the third day, she finally emerged sometime after 6pm. She looked like a wreck, her long black hair snarled around her face in a haphazard mass, wearing the same clothes as the day she’d gone in. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her usual dark gaze was glassy and unfocused. It became clear from her painstaking movements, that she was exhausted. He didn’t speak to her as she made her way into the kitchen, where she pulled the milk from the fridge and had it straight from the carton.

Her eyes were bloodshot, he noticed, and when she moved, the smell of alcohol assaulted him. He paused in his writing, unable to take his eyes off of her. He had never seen her so vulnerable. Even her posture was different, her shoulders rounded defensively. A part of him wanted desperately to go to her, but he knew that she would only lash out. She looked vulnerable, but there was always something beneath, always prepared to defend and fight off any suggestions of weakness. She never accepted help, not from anyone. He had often wondered if she ever let her guard down. Did his dad see it when he was plowing her into the mattress? He smiled at that thought. No, she’d never let David have control. It was probably her on top or nothing at all.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, loudly throwing silverware into the sink, though it was obviously making her wince.

She has a hangover, he thought, half concerned and half amused. That’s what she gets for binge drinking, he said to himself maliciously.