She is My Mother, My Monster

By Dia Mori

“I’m afraid of the dark,” he admitted. He was only a boy. He hadn’t yet learned of any of the terrors the dark could hold. 

But it’d only be cruel to frighten him further. So I held his hand and kissed away tears, assured him he was safe so long as I was near. 

I too had felt that same fear when I was his age. Back then, it was an insurmountable paranoia of tentacled, red-eyed beasts stalking me with ravenous intent. Now, my fear was a lot more realistic, and much more mild, of burglars or wolves and the like. It is a fear I feel very rarely, a fear I can easily brush off with merely a deep breath. 

“The Bogeyman looks nothing like that,” my mother chuckled, when I had confessed the same thing he just did. I’d soon learn just what he looked like, and what far too many other nightmarish creatures looked like. 

Was it fun for her, amusing in some twisted way, to terrify me so? It’s funny to me now, I suppose. 

It wasn’t funny to her for long. Not after my fear gave way to intrigue. Demon spawn, she called me. I could never understand why. Does “demon spawn” not imply she’s the evil one? 

I do have to thank her, more in passing thought than in genuine appreciation. I titled the magnum opus of my first collection “Demon Spawn.” I made artwork of my fears; I gave value to trivial terrors. Somehow, I gained fame, and less importantly, found peace. 

It’d be foolish to blame her distaste for me only on the art I create. It’d be even more foolish to grow hateful towards me for not following the path she wanted me to. So I say it’s the artist in me she hates, just so that she isn’t the only idiot here. 

I shouldn’t offer consideration to someone that threw me out of her life for liking what I like. But I’m trying to teach empathy to my boy, and children learn by example. 

“But what about when you’re gone?” he asked. Shit. I didn’t word my solace properly. Sure, he’s safe from his nightmares as long as I’m near, but he shouldn’t have to worry about dangers that appear when I’m not around. 

“I’ll always be right here,” I answered, pressing my hand to his chest near his heart. 

My reply wasn’t original in the slightest, but it was the sentiment that mattered. I wasn’t often offered that sentiment. 

“Life is tough. And it’s going to screw you over if you aren’t any tougher,” she’d say. I understood that she meant I wasn’t allowed to cry or show any vulnerability. 

Well, I let my kid cry when he wants to. It makes him tougher, having the freedom to express his emotions. 

She never once told me she’d remain in my heart. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t. But I suppose she didn’t think she ever had to, confident that I’d love her blindly for the rest of time. That nothing could diminish her value in my eyes, especially not her own actions. 

Would he paint me in a similar light someday? Would he raise a child I’ll never meet, with my words constantly in the forefront of his mind so that he knows what not to say? Would he worry he’s never enough, plagued by the pain I’ve inflicted upon him? 

He seemed satisfied with my answer anyhow, and finally curled up into his bed. Still, I left his night light on when I left the room. I left the hallway lights on, too, in case he needed to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. 

She had never done that for me. I wet my bed too many times once the Bogeyman and his crew took rein in my bedroom. Somehow, my fear was disobedience, and I had to be punished for it. It only stopped when I stole a flashlight from the garage. 

I still have that flashlight. Now, it’s used for shadow puppets and adventurous explorations in the attic. 

Couldn’t she play with me the way I play with him? Why were mind games so much more amusing to her than games that were fun for the both of us? 

Is this now a mind game of hers? See who breaks first, who runs towards the other with their tail between their legs, sobbing, begging for forgiveness. A psychological challenge that lasts years seems over-the-top, but I wouldn’t put it past her. 

Unfortunately for her, I’ve done nothing to apologize for. And if, heaven forbid, anything were to happen that ruins what I’ve got with my son, he needn’t apologize either. 

Dia Mori is a Canadian creative writer. She mainly writes poetry, short stories, and flash fiction.