Burning Memories
My fingernail scratches at the flaking gold paint. I watch it drift to the ground, leaving behind darkened wood. It frames a picture. My mother—a beautiful woman. Poise, sweet, affluential. I prefer the wooden frame. It complements her caramel brown hair much better than the cheap paint my father brushed onto the frame himself—a pretender to humility. I don't know what my mother saw in him. He's not worthy of the title father, let alone husband to such a woman.
My mother worked for her wealth as he hopped from rich family to rich family since his own father kicked his spoiled son to the curb. And my merciful mother took him in like a stray. Why she fell for such a young, childish man, I'll never know. He used her wealth to buy himself a humble persona. A craftsman, a gardener, an artist, and to his credit, it worked. His social circle praised him for his "authentic" self, never lost to money. He made paintings, sculptures, and vases, which my mother insisted on displaying. Even as a child, I knew the muddied colors and unrefined shapes he claimed were intentional innovation were nothing but uninspired tripe.
How sickening it was to share her light touches, a kiss, her praise, her love. I was reminded every day of his hold on her, his smug brush stroke eyes taunting me from behind their frame. Why did he get to flaunt her on his arm for everyone to see while our love was trapped behind doors? Why was he better?
I continue up the sturdy, velvet-carpeted staircase to the second floor. More pictures, more paintings, most of them abstract nonsense from my father. Then, I pass my mother's room. I can smell her perfume, the strong scent of alcoholic florals. My father said it gave him a headache, but I found it divine. I still do. Carefully, I sit on her white, feathered bed, and it sinks under my weight. I remember when it was just her and me in this room. She'd tell her husband she wanted space for the night, and like the naive child he was, he slept in the guest bedroom, happy to oblige to any and every request she gave him. Desperate to stay in her pocket. I lay down and close my eyes, quivering. I remember the first time. Sweet, burning memories. She welcomed me into manhood. Every brilliant, warm Sunday, my mother loved me deeply. Soon, my idiot father realized that my mother was relishing in the presence of a real man.
They fought. Threw priceless treasures at walls like they were playing a privileged game of darts. Her voice became thin. Skin glossy with tears like a porcelain doll. He, on the other hand, was unruly. Took advantage of her fragile, tired frame to scold her as if he weren't the one throwing a tantrum. And after tearing her down, he'd glare at me, scoffing. I'd grin back.
My heart twists with giddiness as I find her perfume bottle. Crystal glass, half full with an elixir similar to white wine. I bring my nose to the nozzle, and my stomach leaps. A satisfied breath leaves me as I tightly grip the bottle. The third floor has a dedicated room for my father's "art." This is where he spent most of his time after he found out about us. Locked away, sulking. I'd fantasize about barring the door, hoping he'd starve. I'd giggle at the thought of him eating torn strips of acrylic-splattered canvas as a last resort to stave off hunger. Unfortunately, my mother wasn't as joyful as I was.
What I saw as an opportunity was devastating to her. The roles had reversed, and I angrily watched my mother chase him, beg him for forgiveness. She sat outside his door, draped in her silky white robe—the one she'd wear when we were together. Jealousy tore my heart. She looked like a mournful swan, waiting for her lover to return to her. Yet, he was stubborn, a stone wall. She deserved better. She deserved me. Embarrassment was a torturously delicious look on my mother. She'd catch my eye gazing at her through the staircase railing. She had no reason to feel shameful in front of me. I blamed no one except the coward hiding in our house. Yet, the pink dusted on her cheeks piqued my interest too much not to stare at her.
I look up. The attic. My fingers grab hold of the rope, ends split from use. A ladder unfolds, and I climb up, the sunset peeking through the attic window. Suddenly, guilt hits me, sorrow summoning tears. I sharply inhale, hesitating to climb up. But I don't have much time. I hoist myself up, my eyes making contact with my mother's. Her eyebrows knitted together delicately. Face strawberry red from crying. My father lies dead next to her.
After a few years, he finally relented in the face of her persistence and forgave her, but the older I grew, the sharper his tongue became towards me. Cold, harsh. Twenty more years she stayed married to this leech. From the ages seven to nineteen, I was forced to witness her bow her head to him. Every sin of his was dismissed swiftly when he'd bring up her "mistake." My mother let him. Agreed even.
I couldn't believe her. Is that really what she thought of us? A mistake? I had no choice but to leave. She had made up her mind, and it scarred me, though it only served to make my revenge more gratifying in the end. Twenty-three lacerations to his heart. One for every year he poisoned this home with his presence. My mother's home. Our home. It was a fraction of the heartache I went through. Foolishly, I thought she'd be grateful. We'd finally be able to be together, but she was horrified. Threatened me with prison. Now we sit together in the attic, her tender body bound. It's unfitting, but necessary.
"One last chance," I utter, "choose us, like you used to," Big, almond eyes. Glossy. Unconvinced. I can't help the tears running down my cheeks. "Please?" It's the same piteous look. Even in death, he manages to make her choose him.
"I see..." It's come to this. My hand cups her face, supple with age. I press a kiss to the tape hiding her precious, coral lips. I stand, looking away before I do something stupid, focusing on the window framing the fiery sky. I throw her perfume bottle on the wooden boards, glass shatters across the floor, the attic filling with her scent. I inhale deeply, eyes fluttering.
"Goodbye, mother. I love you," My fingers strike a match and it somberly falls to the ground, catching her essence aflame. I can hear her muffled cries. Sobbing. Pleading, but there's nothing I can do now. The attic ladder creaks sadly as I climb down and let it close. Heat already warms my scalp, the house moaning in defeat. I regret killing him here. He doesn't deserve even that. Everything stays in place, only able to come with me in memory. I can't risk it.
Slowly, I descend, taking it all in. My bedroom, her gowns, makeup-stained papers memorialized in my journals. My grin is bittersweet as I touch the glass of her portrait one last time. I'm tempted to stay on the steps and burn with her gentle jawline, pale, reaching neck like an orchid, lashes like butterfly wings. But painful heat urges me to move on. The living room, a place of sanctuary for her and me. Reading novels and enlightening, mature talks. The kitchen, oh, how wonderful the aroma of her pastries. Raspberry flavored anything was her favorite. I could watch her lips be tainted red by the sour-sweet berry all day. At last, the front door greets me, angry fire following my footsteps. The knob is surprisingly cool and smooth. Crisp, autumn air rushes in as I crack the door open. I wish I could stay. I so desperately want to stay.
My childhood home. I will forever cherish you. Especially you, my darling mother.