My Mother Knew My Darkness – Short Story

“What if I could show you something wonderful, something I could not explain to you in any words on how I did it. Something that would change the very center of your being. Would you care to see this? Would you allow yourself to take in what I am showing you, without doubt or question? Would you dare to believe?” Harry says as he looks around at the millions of silent eyes as they stare at him.

He smiles broadly as he sits back in an old cracked, worn leather chair and places the lip of a pipe in his mouth before taking several quick puffs, surrounding himself in smoke almost instantaneously.

“When I was a boy my mother believed I was something different, she believed I was evil, a spawn of the devil. No one believed her, especially not my father. They all put her ramblings down to her being a new mother and dealing with the life altering circumstances of becoming one. It wasn’t until the day my father returned home from work after being away for three weeks that he caught her holding my head in a sink full of water. After that the doctors diagnosed her with postpartum disorder, but frankly as I sit here with you today I have to be honest and say she wasn’t wrong,” he stops and takes another few puffs on his pipe before staring pensively out into the sea of eyes that meet his gaze once again.

“When I eventually left home, I broke my mothers heart. Not because she was heartbroken over me leaving her, but because I had killed her two French poodles. To be honest I didn’t just kill them, I stripped them of their succulent meat and served it to her on a bed of asparagus and mashed potatoes. She was never the same after that. It was only some months after that when my father called to say she had smashed her own skull in with a hammer from the tool shed. At first I was bitterly disappointed that she had robbed me of the task, but as time passed I realised the whore deserved nothing grander than to die so horribly by her own hands. It’s around this time I began the craving of attention. At first it was sex with whoever and wherever possible, but that soon lost it’s spark and I craved a different kind of attention. I dabbled in open mic nights, self-help meetings like Alcoholics Anonymous, talent contests, poetry readings, basically anything that would allow me time in front of an audience so I could spread my word, where I could infect every living thing with my dead touch. But each time I achieved my desired outcome I wanted more,” he stops and cradles the pipe as he folds one leg over the other and leans forward.

“Can you feel the craving?” He whispers as a million terrified eyes stare at him, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to do anything but feed his need for more.

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