Chapter 9

“So, why did you scream, Mom?” I asked my mother directly while cuddling with Hannah in her old bedroom.

Mom lowered her head for a moment and mumbled something, which I frankly didn’t hear very well.

“What was that?” I demanded to know.

“Because ... he ... was gonna ... kill you! There, I said it! I didn’t want my husband to kill my son! What kind of mother do you think that I am?” Mom blurted, getting dangerously close to sass for my preference, but at least showing real emotion.

“Well, I had honest doubts that you actually gave a damn about me. From all I could tell, I was the redheaded stepchild, even to you. I barely got any consideration, and then mostly on birthdays when someone else might show up. It was a very Potemkin Village kind of home, at least for me. Most of the time, I was an afterthought, especially while you threatened Dad to keep him in line while you cucked him,” I observed rather dryly, “thankfully, both Hannah and he grew backbones and stood up to your abuse, for which I applaud them.”

“Wow ... you really think that poorly of me ... you must hate me or something, your own mother!” Mom reacted with astonishment.

“And you must have been in some kind of purple fucking haze not to realize it until just now. I seethed this whole time with anger and resentment, after all. With outright bitterness, in fact. And, yes, I fucking hate you. Why shouldn’t I? You’re a rather myopic, narcissistic cunt to not realize how much you’ve treated others like crap this whole time.

“How much of the damn child support did you actually spend on me versus your stupid fancy fitness routines, when you could saved money and just jogged or something? How many times did I live off bologna and saltines while you splurged for others, especially that prick who just tried to murder me this morning?” I confronted Mom directly, the venom in my voice rather unmistakable.

“Well ... um ... he owed it to me, especially since I didn’t get what I deserved in alimony,” Mom excused herself.

“From a fucking barber? A BARBER! Really? How dumb do you have to be? How much wealth do you think that a barber hoards after spending most of his income on overhead, anyway? Damn, for a supposedly smart woman, you can be a real moron, you know! Norris made more as a high-level man of the cloth than Dad did from the barbershop after keeping the lights, Mom!” I shook my head in disgust now as Mom stammered out her bullshit complaints, excuses, and grievances.

Jesus Jiminy Cricket, the arguments in defense of female hypergamy could really take the cake when a woman was forced to debate on the merits of logic and reason instead of emotion. Ugh! I couldn’t help but laugh my head off as Mom stood there in the nude, still trying to convince me that she wasn’t a villain or monster or something. She didn’t deserve my pity, that much was clear, certainly not compassion, empathy, or even sympathy. I was beyond repulsed. She made me physically ill to hear her nonsensical claims and rebuttals.

That was when I lost all fear of and respect for my mother. I saw through her, to what she really was, deep down. She was a brat. A spoiled, fucking, entitled brat, a wannabe princess of the idiotic Disney variety, who honestly thought that she deserved the right to have men bow and scrape to her while she treated them like lowly serfs. No, she wasn’t a whore. Whores were honest women who earned their pay with a fair and just transaction. She was a spoiled brat, plain and simple.

She was a hypocrite, too, like most prudes of her sort. Cheating was bad, unless or until she or someone else that she favored did it. Lying was wrong with the same exceptions. Abuse was wrong with the same caveats. You name the transgression, and she was all up in arms against it, until it might condemn her or her beloved to be so. Ugh, what a stupid bitch! I was a god now! How could I, a motherfucking god, have such an entitled, narcissistic dumbass for a mother? What an embarrassment!

“Get out of my sight. You make me sick to my stomach! Later on, when you disgust me less, perhaps we can still see if some kind of relationship between us can be salvaged, preferably on your back or your belly. You’re no use to me as a mother, but you might still make a passable concubine. I swear to God, that is to me, as I am the only living God that I’ve ever met, that I have no fucking clue what Dad ever saw in you,” I dismissed Mom curtly now, not being the least bit bothered by her waterworks.

They were crocodile tears, after all. I was sure of that much. Mom was a sicko, but she must be a half-decent actress to con Dad into marrying her in the first place. I didn’t know for sure, but I suspected that if I was, in fact, a sociopath or even psychopath, I got it honestly from her. It couldn’t have come from my father’s side. He was a warm, likable, caring man, after all. He wasn’t a pig like Mom.

Of course, I had unwittingly revealed to Mom, and to Hannah, my personal God/god (which case was fitting here, lower or upper, since I happened to be correct) complex. Oh, well, what was she gonna do about it? Report me? I could stop her a lot easier than she could ever stop me. I could bend space and time. She could not. I had supernatural powers. She did not. I was a god. She was not a goddess, that much was obvious.