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Mothers' Day

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Mothers’ DayShe visited him. In the basement, in the street, in the cellar, she was there for him, with him, so he was never alone.

God, how he wished he was alone.

Sometimes she was empathetic. “I lost her. It was so sudden. I thought my worries were finished; she’d had the operation, she was out of the hospital, she’d even been on a fricking date. So I know loss. I know it hits sudden and deep.”

His loss hadn’t hit sudden. It hadn’t hit deep either, not for the first century. When it did hit deep it was sudden.

Sometimes she reminded him he was always guilty. “You liked her, you said. I saw her buying the special chocolate, the sort with the little marshmallows for you. I saw you making her laugh. But when it counted, you weren’t there. You made free of her house and my house, but when she needed you where were you?”

Sometimes she looked different. “You don’t know guilt, my Spike. You don’t know being driven by remorse when they died and you couldn’t help. You don’t know feelings any more than you know the birds in the well or the stars hiding in the floor. You don’t know because you’re not right and never will be.”

Sometimes she was herself. “You thought I loved you. You never knew how much I laughed at you. My friends thought I should have got rid of you, but I was too soft, too tired to tell you what I really thought. Your father could have said, but he was long gone and I just took the easy way.”

Sometimes she was gentle and kind. “I need you to be here with me. Just let’s sit together and be quiet.” But sometimes that turned into something quite other. “Just sit there and let me run my hands through your hair. And over your body, all those smooth planes and defined muscles.” Those were the times he screamed. He wanted her and he wanted her and he even missed her, but they were all three there together in one and as one.

He knew it was his fault. It was the soul. It was the lack of soul and the two killings so close together, so long ago. It was the girl who rejected him and the one who took him and made him her own and the girl who rejected him while taking him or took him as she rejected him. Above all it was the one he failed again and again. He’d failed to save her, he’d failed to cure her, he’d killed her again and again which was why she never left him.

He shifted his posture and heard that tune and shifted his face and raged and raged. She’d made him a man and made him a monster and now he was trying to be a man again.

The girl could save him. She treated him as a man, knowing he was a monster. He could serve her or service her and she would come to him and come with him. And then he could be at peace.