My mother was taken from me at an early age. I wasn't terribly upset. She deserved what she got.
Scars identify us. They are a part of who we are and who we once were. I had seen the scar on the lower abdomen of Alison, a streetwalker I had taken a shine to and patronised regularly - it is very similar to the one my mother had where she had been stabbed during a bar fight. My mother was a mean bitch. Alison could be mean, too, although there was no sign of that when I drove the dagger into her stomach. Nothing like reopening old wounds, right?
Kelly and I had had an on-again-off-again relationship since high school. She was attracted to my wilful disregard for authority and continual displays of indifference for the sensitivity of others. I was attracted to her by her perfume. Our fragmented relationship was dependent on my ability to not hate her for reminding me of my mother. That scent comes to me now as I wrap her corpse in recently-defiled bedsheets. I guess I hate that perfume again.
As I got older, I came to recognise that my destructive behaviour was rooted in the fact that I never got to have closure on the daily abuse I received from my mother. Physically, mentally, emotionally and even sexually...
My mother was, if nothing else, consistent. Following every tirade, every put-down, and every molestation, she would apologise - a lot. She would shed crocodile tears and beg my forgiveness. Joanne was an ugly girl - she wasn't likely to be attractive to anybody else and I only kept her around for the constant sex. She would invariably apologise after making love - either about her performance or some other irrelevant issue. The one thing I have learned from that relationship is that the human tongue is almost impossible to pull out of a person's mouth...almost, that is.
I grew to know what form of abuse I was going to be subjected to on any given day. There were certain looks I recognised, became aware of. When it was to be sexual, my mother's language and bearing would have had a lewd and wanton characteristics and when I complied to her unnatural desires, a chilling smile would flit across her face, as if in victory. Reagan used to smile like that, too, when she would fall before me on her knees - she had something else in mind but it was all the same to me. I was surpised how fragile the human neck could be.
Whiskey and painkillers. When I saw them sitting on the kitchen table, I knew violence wasn't far behind. Mother would be in an almost trance-like state when she hit me. She would use closed fists and hit me so hard and so often, that she would bleed from the knuckles. She would also bite hard on her lip in effort - so hard, in fact, that she would often break the skin. When she was exhausted and reached the apology stage, she would kiss me; her blood would mix with mine, blood and sweat, blood and saliva.
I developed a taste for blood, a craving, a desire...everything else is just an excuse.