Mommy Loves You

She sees me staring at her and waves me over. My body moves towards her. It’s maddening to not be able to communicate with her. I want to call out to her, to tell her that we should go somewhere else – perhaps a nice little restaurant where we can drink and chat until the early hours of the morning. Then, perhaps we could go home and work on making that baby that she’d been talking about having. Her hair is the same as it was the last time I saw her. It’s always the same.

We embrace and kiss like we always do. It’s torture to know that my lips are meeting hers, but not be able to feel the touch of her skin. I have no control over what I say or do. I fix her scarf for her and lead her to the hot-dog stand. We chat about our day as the vender prepares our rushed, yet delicious dinner. It would probably seem weird to most people that my wife and I meet every year at a hot-dog stand for our anniversary, but it’s where we met. It’s our little thing.

We stay close to the stand after the vender gives us our hot-dogs, enjoying the warmth from the grill. We eat in a hurry – the movie will be starting soon and we don’t want to be late. She talks about her day, I’m hardly listening. I’ve heard it all before. I stare at her beautiful face, taking in her beauty and study every curve of her face, every line. God, I wish I could smell her. She checks her watch and says that we have to hurry. Then, she throws away the remaining half of her hot-dog, motions for me to follow her, and steps into the street. My mind screams out to her, yells for her to come back – begs her. She rushes past a parked car and my mind races when the bright headlights of the bus spotlight her. She freezes and stares momentarily at the instrument of her death, then steals a quick glance at me just before the end. The expression on her face isn’t one of fear or terror, but of love. Just before the bus hits her, I open my eyes. The cycle is complete.

The chamber door opens and I step out. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the brightness of the chamber-room, but I know that Frank is standing nearby – he always is. His concerned face comes into focus slowly.

“Do you need to sit down, Joe?” He asks.

“No Frank, thank you.” He should know better. I’m a veteran.

I pull out my wallet and hand him my Identification card. He turns to the holographic keyboard and begins typing.
“Okay, you got the entire eight minutes. You get the frequent trip discount at eighty percent…so that’s twelve-hundred and fifty dollars.” He passes my card through the holographic monitor and grimaces when the screen turns red. “Looks like you’re almost out of credits,” he says.

“I get paid tomorrow. Can you spot me?”

He considers my request for a second and then hands me back my card. “Okay,” he says, “but just this once. You really need to slow down on this thing. Perhaps trip to someone else’s past for a change.”

I’m still shaking my head no as I climb back inside the chamber.

“Well, it’s your mind, Frank says, grabbing the outer-chamber door, “and your wallet. See you in eight minutes.” He closes the door and the lights go out. I close my eyes tight until the bright flash passes. When I open them again, I see her standing on the corner by the hot-dog stand. She sees me staring at her and waves me over.

Mommy Loves You

Troy Creech looked around the living room when he walked in the house. Head barely poking through the door, he listened for sounds. Not just any sounds, but the banging and slamming of heavy items – sounds that would alert him in advance that his mother was in… one of her moods. The house was silent. He walked the rest of the way into the house, threw his book bag down by the front door, and headed for the kitchen. His mom was in one of her moods that morning, so he’d left the house early, deciding that hunger was a small price to pay to avoid her wrath. He’d almost reached the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the living room when his mom walked through it, her face lighting up in bright smile when she saw that he was home.

“Troy!” She said, pulling him into a tight hug, “my baby!”

Troy tried not to tense up. If she sensed how scared he was, it would only set her off. She kissed his cheek and then held him out at arm’s length, looking him up and down. When her eyes fixed on his face again, they looked sad, almost teary. Her mouth drooped into a pout.

“You left this morning without eating your breakfast. I’ve been worried sick. You must be starving!”

“Umm…I guess so.”

Her smile returned – wider than before. She pulled him into the kitchen and sat him down at the dining table.

“What would you like? She asked. “We have peanut-butter and jelly. Is that okay?”

“That’s great, mom,” Troy sad, looking down at the table-top. He didn’t have to look at her to know that she was beaming at him.

She set to work, bustling around the kitchen. Once the sandwich was made, she put it on a paper plate and sat it in front of him. Then, she ruffled his hair and told him that she was going to clean up a little. When she left the dining room, Troy felt as if a house had been lifted off of him. He let out his breath, previously unaware that he was holding it in, and began to eat the sandwich. Troy didn’t really care for peanut butter and jelly. That was his dad’s favorite. Troy preferred bologna and cheese, but he’d never tell his mom that.

About half way through the sandwich, peanut-butter plastered to the top of his mouth, Troy wished that he had a cold glass of milk. He pulled a tall glass from the cupboard above the sink and carried it across the kitchen, setting it down on the marble counter before opening the refrigerator door. He pulled on the refrigerator door with his right hand, but had to switch to his left when a sudden, dull pain crawled up his arm from his elbow to his shoulder. The bruise that his mother had given him was nearly gone, but the pain still came and went. He grabbed the handle of the refrigerator door and yanked it open… then he heard her scream.

Usually, Troy would run and hide when he heard his mother scream like that. To him, it wasn’t a scream at all. To him, it was the roar of a monstrous beast coming to dine on him. Before he could react, his mother stormed back into the kitchen, his book-bag in her hand.

“What’s this ****?” She screamed. She swung the book-bag with the force of a home-run hitter and slammed it against the side of his face, knocking him to the floor. Standing above him, her features pinched and twisted, she thrust the bag out toward him and shouted, “Do I look like your Goddamn maid?”

Troy knew better than to answer her – the last time he’d tried, she nearly tore his arm from the socket. Instead, he slid backward on his behind until his back rested against the kitchen wall. It wasn’t a defensive posture, which would’ve invited another attack, but a position of submission that was perfected through years of practice. Most times, if he stayed quiet, just kept his mouth shut, her rage would burn out and she’d be nice again. It didn’t work.

She loomed above him, her eyes burning red with fury and flitting around at the kitchen until they fixed on something that brought a psychotic little grin to her lips. She left Troy sitting against the wall and walked to the counter, returning seconds later brandishing a large wooden spoon.

“I’m not your maid!” She shouted and swung the spoon downward.

***

Shirt removed, cold tap running, Troy checked out his new bruises in the upstairs bathroom. He found a large, purple one on his back. There were two more fresh ones on his upper arm and face. He knew that he would have to make up something to tell his dad about the one on his face. Not too bad, he thought. At least she didn’t grab a frying pan. He stepped back from the mirror and took in his whole reflection. His chest and arms were covered in yellow-brown marks in various stages of healing. In spite of the horrific situation that had become his life, he began to laugh.

His dad came home from work just as he was coming back downstairs. He had a bucket of chicken and a couple of other bags. Troy grabbed the bags and carried them into the kitchen silently. During dinner, Troy’s dad asked him how he got the shiner on his cheek. His mom, who was standing just behind his father cast him a dark look – tell him and die, that look said.

“I got hit in the face with a softball.”

After the lie passed through his lips, his mom fixed him with a warm, loving smile.

“You need to be more careful, Champ,” his dad said. “You’re supposed to hit the ball, not the other way around.”

That night, while in bed, Troy listened for hours as his mother’s yells, name calling, and sobbing drifted through the house house. His father never said anything. He just went on as if the world was as normal as could be. Sometimes Troy hated him for that. Feeling utterly alone, Troy began to cry.

The next morning, Troy got out of bed, threw on his clothes, and ran downstairs. His mother wasn’t around, so he snatched up his book-bag and hurried out the front door. School was a safer place than home. But that only lasted until four o’clock. Then what? He decided to ask his friend Jake if he could spend the night at his house. One night without fresh bruises sounded like heaven.

Jake and Troy shared fourth period together. Troy muscled through the first three periods of school eagerly. Jake sat right next to him in Life Science, so Troy figured that he could ask his friend at the beginning of the period and then Jake could call his parents and ask if it was okay during lunch. Fourth period never came that day. With only ten minutes of third period remaining, a woman’s voice came over the school PA system and instructed him to go to the principal’s office. Troy’s first horrible thought was that his mom had come to the school to get him, but he dismissed the idea immediately – she didn’t drive.

When Troy walked into the school administration office, the principal was waiting for him. He took Troy into his office and sat him down on a large comfortable chair.

“You want to tell me what’s been going on?” Mr. Brown asked. The man’s face looked sad to Troy – sad and concerned.

“Ummm…I dunno what…”

“The bruises Troy,” Mr. Brown said. “How did you get the bruises?”

“I…ummm…I got hit by a soft ball.”

“Ah,” Mr. Brown said. He leaned forward against his desk and folded his hands together. “Mr. Moore told me that he saw bruises on your back when you were dressing after P.E. Did you get those from softball too?”

Troy’s chest felt like there was a jackhammer inside of it trying to chisel its way out. He opened his mouth to speak some made up, on the fly story, but words failed him.

“Troy,” Mr. Brown said. “I want to help you, but you have to tell me what happened. You’re not alone, son.”

Emotion welled up inside of Troy. He tried to fight back the tears, but like his voice, they betrayed him. A dam broke behind his eyes and twin rivers began to run down his face.

His mom and dad arrived a few minutes later. His mom stood on one side of him in the principal’s office and his dad on the other. They both looked extremely upset. For different reasons, Troy thought.

“Abused?” His dad said. “That’s ridiculous! The boy’s just clumsy!”

Mr. Brown nearly jumped up from his chair, his face red with anger.

“Troy; can you wait outside for a few minutes?” He said, never taking his eyes off of Troy’s father.

Troy didn’t have to be told twice. He left the office and sat down on the stiff wooden bench just outside the office door – the one where the school’s bad kids sat on any given day, anxiously waiting to be punished for their crimes. His mother followed him out, a disgusted, worried look on her face.

Once Troy was out of the office and the door was safely closed, Mr. Brown told Troy’s father to have a seat.

“Your son says that he’s abused Mr. Creech. If you’re not going to take this seriously, then I will. I’ll be calling the police. I have no choice in these matters, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Wait a damned minute,” Mr. Creech said. “You’re not suggesting that I…”

“Hold on, Mr. Creech, hold on.” He didn’t say that you’ve been abusing him.”

Mr. Creech looked puzzled.

“What?” Mr. Creech said. “Then who… the kids at school? If they are, I’m going to…”

“Mr. Creech,” Mr. Brown said. “Just before you got here, Troy told me that his mother is the person that’s been beating him. That’s why I wanted to talk to you before notifying the authorities.”

Mr. Creech’s mouth hung open, frozen in disbelief.

“Mr. Brown, my wife killed herself right after Troy was born. You know that.”

“I know, Mr. Creech, but there is obviously something going on with him. Someone is doing these things to him.”

Just outside the office door, Troy’s mother sat down on the bench beside him. She leaned against him, rested her head on his shoulder, and began to play with his hair.

“I’ll never leave you again, baby” she said. “Mommy loves you.”

Troy’s bladder betrayed him…



THE END

Absolutely loved both of these stories. I've always been fascinated by stories dealing with time travel and Eight Minutes was a very good play on this theme. It was both well written and quite interesting in its development.

The second, Mommy Loves You truly soared on several levels in my estimation. First of all, the presentation itself was very well developed with an economy of words which nonetheless precisely stated the story; also, I could feel myself relating to the terror experienced by the boy, and to be able to vicariously relate to the characters in a story is always (to me anyway) the mark of a very good writer. If you've read any of my stories by now you know I am a "Twist Lover" and the twist at the end of this story was a knockout punch - LOVED IT!

RMDuChene, PLEASE submit more stories to this board if only for my sake. I truly love your style of writing and would like to experience more of it.

I can only say just what DATo said. I didn't see these stories earlier. Really great writing!

"Eight Minutes" was terrific.

I wanted to like "Mommy Loves You", because I've always been a fan of ghost stories, and modifying the abused-child dynamic by having the abuser be the ghost of his nutjob mother is a nice idea. The problem is that this one has a few logical gaps. It seems like this has been going on most or all of his life ("a position of submission that was perfected through years of practice"), with visible bruises/marks being inflicted constantly, but only now does someone at school notice them? And his dad, who he's lived with his whole life, never did, or never saw them as unusual? Also, while the rest of the story seems to show that his mother is invisible to everyone but him, he's at first worried that "his mom had come to the school to get him." How would that even happen? Her not driving would also seem completely irrelevant under the circumstances. Finally, since the principal is aware of Troy's mother's death, he's awfully quick to mollify Troy's father, who is immediately the best/only abuse suspect. Though now I also wonder why abuse is the first and only avenue being pursued, when bullying would also be an obvious possibility. You've got the makings of another good one here if you're willing to spend some time ironing out the logical wrinkles.

Hi Calidore,

I appreciate your feedback. I understand what you mean about the logical gaps and I agree with you about the not driving part (This was one of my first short tales). However, the rest of your questions are asked every day when children are killed by abusive parents. Why didn't anyone notice? How could the other parent not know? How could the school not have known? Is it perfect? Not even close - but it's honest.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by RMDuChene

the rest of your questions are asked every day when children are killed by abusive parents. Why didn't anyone notice? How could the other parent not know? How could the school not have known? Is it perfect? Not even close - but it's honest.

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True enough; my point was that the extent of Troy's abuse, with all the bruises and marks being apparently added daily, made it harder to swallow that nobody would have seen it. If the physical signs are toned down a bit (or maybe if mention is made of his mother's lately increasing instability), that might help.

I like both stories, particularly the first one. The first one has an element of surprise, imagination, the unusual, which I like. But that's my own bias.

Although the second-story was good too.

Hi Calidore,

Thank you so much again for your feedback. I will certainly consider your recommendations when I re-edit.

Hi Wolf,

Thank you for your feedback. I try out different genres and styles (still trying to find my niche).