My Mother's Head...

At the time , the visual was obvious enough , but only I knew what the answers were – at least what made sense to me anyway . I held my mother’s head by the once tight bun of graying hair , that by then , resembled nothing more than a sopping mess of blood and matter squeezing between my calm , clenched fingers . I remember the viscera hanging in shreds , and dripping to the green shag carpet from the bottom of her jaggedly severed neck resembling the traditional comedy act that my dead brother would perform every time we had spaghetti – letting a large fork full of the pasta and meat gravy hang from his mouth , while crossing his eyes once our parents weren’t paying attention … I laughed , and more blood dripped from my wounded mouth , I remember it tasting of cinnamon …

Of course my mother clawed at me , clinging for her own life as any other basic animal would do – her freshly manicured nails ripped through my face from my left ear , down to my lips - which she sliced with frantic ease in three places … all of this happened just after I used my childhood Louisville Slugger to crack my father’s head like a Christmas walnut , then shove it as far down my spaghetti drooling brother’s neck as I could , until it got stuck somewhere deep within his chest cavity . His eyes never closed , only dripped floods of tears , then obviously blood . I’m glad my older sister wasn’t home at the time , she was always nice to me … my mother , was not …

Just as I finished force feeding my brother the baseball bat that he actually bought me for my twelfth birthday , mother returned from her nail appointment , and more than likely a quick hand job for the salon’s owner that she had been slinking around with for the past eight years . The funny thing , was that after the initial shock of the moment faded from her unsuspecting features , we both eyed the long , serrated bread knife lying on the kitchen counter …

Much of it was a blur after that … the struggle for the knife itself … the flaying arms , and blur of freshly painted red finger nails … the elbows to any part of a body that would hurt most … the screams . The first knife wound hurt her the most , I could tell by the lack of noise escaping from her lipstick smeared mouth – all of her attention was directed to the seven inches of serrated stainless steel buried deep within her abdomen . After I pulled the bread knife from her stomach , and before I could stab her chest just to end everything , that is when she raked my face , and shredded my lips … and that , is what made me decide to remove my mother’s head …

At first , it reminded me of the first time I carved a Thanksgiving turkey – how the bones felt as the carving blade vibrated against them as I cut a little too far in to the breast meat . I feverishly sawed back and forth for what seemed an eternity before I heard that exasperating pop of the last tendon , and the rest of her body fell to the kitchen tile – that freed weight automatically lifting my arm upward … our eyes meeting one another’s in a matching sense of understanding . For every slap to the face I took , for every clap of a wiffle ball bat to the small of my exposed back I endured , for every neck squeeze that always brought stinging tears to my eyes – my mother’s eyes told me that she knew why it all had to end this way , and that she understood …

As I said from the beginning , the visual was obvious enough as the swirling red lights engulfed the living room , and the police seemed to flood my home in groups of slow motion shadows – all of them seeing me stand there in such an invulnerable state – my mother’s head dripping to the green shag carpet as I held it relaxed next to my right thigh . I knew I had a smile upon my face , I just couldn’t feel anything from head , to toe …

This jail cell is filthy , and smells of the many men forcibly raped against the soiled mattress – the mold scattered across the ceiling in odd patterns of swirled neglect seems as though it wants to drip straight down on me . They forgot to take my shoelaces , but it doesn’t really matter anyway – those broke from my body weight during the first attempt to hang myself from the bars placed in front of the small window looking out to the brown grass of a wide courtyard … but , the lynch I formed from my shirt should do the trick this time around …

I don’t have to turn around and look on the soiled mattress behind me to know that my mother’s head is leaning against the shit drawn wall , and laughing at me … I of course know the laughter’s tenor , and I also expected her to be here with me to a certain degree , and would be disappointed if she didn’t exist at all . I don’t expect to spend my eternity alone either , I certainly know that whatever happens after my last breath suffocates itself , and wherever my mind is sent after my last memory fades , my mother will be there waiting for me …