The Characterization of Mom
The retching, the craving, the bleeding-not-bleeding, the pain...
“Ooooh, wow. Another bathroom trip. Did we run out of toilet paper? Also, do we have--”
A granola bar and an ice pack for my swollen lower back. “--don’t tell me. Ow, nope. Haven’t avoided that...”
I stared around at the room I was in, the crucifix and a statue (made of marble) of Saint Sebastian decor-ed it.
“I think they bought the story...though one of them kept demanding to see you--something about demons...”
“This was a bad idea...what if they don’t buy the Saint Hedwig...”
“They’re gonna buy it, it’s kind of their thing.”
“...but the...there’s actually a barometer for this kind of stuff.”
“Where did--?” He stopped, then noticed the kitten plush, curled up on top of the human-sized Mary statue’s head.
“--a barometer, huh?” “Yeah...also, I think I just vomited up the oatmeal from earlier...aw, it’s all over the carpet now...anyway, yeah, there’s a giant standard, actually. Why do you think I--SALT, AND CHICKEN. I NEED SALT AND CHICKEN. NOW."
“Do you want the salt on the--”
“WHO CARES?! Please, Saint Woodhouse, just go!”
Salt, nausea, and chicken. Frankly, I could stomach the salted chicken, which was good. The nausea, not so much.
He stood between me and the statue, for a moment doubting his senses. Did it actually smirk at him? “You’re an evil woman...” the prince stammered, slowly backing away from it.
The pregnancy-induced nausea seemed to quell as the statue ostensibly began to speak to him. “Evil? Evil? Perhaps your perception, my dear boy, is tainted. I am exemplary, as is my Father above. You, being a miscreant and unwilling to purify yourself within the presence of an angel, even going so far as to...to...defile her!” “I’d sooner have named it...”
“Silence! You think you could keep this a secret from me, honestly?!” With a single flick of her wrist she sent him flying toward the only non-stained-glass window in the joint, her smirk turning into an eye twitch and then a kiss.
I tried to cumber them, but as I saw her arm wrap around the prince’s neck and then tighten around it, hearing his audible gasping for air as he struggled to free himself from her grip, I wondered what else to do but pray for him.
“Saint Michael, please cast out the demonic force within God’s child, for he knows not what he has done or what he has said under the influence of Morningstar’s minion of darkness. Cleanse his soul and the soul of whom the beast has infected, for she suffers only from the cloud of her mind...a fog of confusion that ended in the matronly cycle of which The Father has brought my son into the world.”
“Uhhhh, he had a brother too, you know. What happened to him? Parental neglect, that’s what happened to him! You were so wrapped up in…”
The choking only got tighter around his neck, and for a second I wondered: was this the first time she had ever truly gotten mad, no, furious at someone–though unintentionally, for her anger was more directed at the demon?