Everyone told me my mother killed herself. I wish I had believed them.

*Content warning: Includes mentions or discussions of suicide, drug use/addiction, child abuse, and defiling of corpses*

I hope you all enjoy!

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My mom was a heroin addict and worked as a prostitute to pay for it. One night she disappeared, only to be found three days later with a hole going from the roof of her mouth out the top of her head. Unfortunately, this doesn’t do the case justice because the true order of events isn’t what that statement would have you believe.

She grew up poor and lived even poorer as an adult. Her dad, my grandfather, was a piece of shit that beat her and her mom. Sometimes it was even worse. She told me she did heroin first when she was nineteen and had been high since, occasionally going to rehab or prison to no avail. As I said, she sold her body to pay for the drugs, bringing clients to her place or letting them take her wherever. One of these excursions is why I’m here. Some jackass forgot to bring a condom one night, and she didn’t have the sense of mind to care. Neither of us had any idea who my dad is, and I really don’t care to find out. He was a waste of life to begin with and I hate him with every fiber of my being. I’m ashamed to admit, I hate my mom almost as much. For all her faults, she was the only one who truly cared about me.

I still remember the last time I ever saw her. The night all of it started.

I was barely fifteen and returned from a bad day at school, opening the door to be greeted by the creaking floorboards, cloud of cigarette smoke, and smell of mold that had permeated the house since the pipes started leaking. Of course, a bad day didn’t mean much for me, and I had simply been caught skipping class and given lunch detention. I spent most of my time not really doing anything in the back of class or smoking in the bathroom anyways. 

It was one of her bad days also, one when she couldn’t get anything to feed the monster. When you do hard drugs, you get put on cloud nine, but coming down feels like death, so most addicts don’t try to maintain the high as much as they try to stave off the low, something my mom was no exception to. She had her head resting on the kitchen table, eyes sunk at least three inches into her skull, cheeks and complexion giving her the appearance of a skeleton, while her dark stringy hair billowed out around her head like the petals of a dying flower. She was shivering, occasionally taking a shaky breath, each one like a death rattle. The veins on her arms looked like they were filled with ink, and a large abscess had formed just above her elbow, a sight that had always made me feel sick.

I was never sure what to do during those days. I knew she felt cold as ice, she told me that was one of the worst parts of coming down, and as much as I wished to give her some warmth, the only moth-eaten blanket was already wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. 

“Hey, mom,” I mumbled. She didn’t even respond. I’m not sure why I thought she would. I can’t even remember what I did that afternoon, something that hurts almost as much as losing her does. I do remember the last thing I ever said to her, though.

As she was stumbling out the door, still shivering, she whispered a goodbye, that she had to go work but she’d be back tomorrow. I said a goodnight, and I never saw her again. I passed out on the couch that night, eventually overtaken by a blissfully dark sleep. The last one I ever got. 

Finding I was alone the next morning didn’t surprise me. My mom often didn’t come home from her work until later in the day, by the time I was at school. When she wasn’t home when I got home, it was slightly shocking. Of course, when you’re presented with something like that, you’ll do anything to justify it. Her absence could certainly be explained by her being off getting high or something. It wasn’t impossible. 

By the next afternoon though, I was certain something was wrong. I didn’t have a phone, we had never had enough money for that, but I knew a couple of kids who did, and I called the police through them. I remember every ring the phone made, every vibration against my ear as I waited for my only hope at finding my mom to pick up. They didn’t know anything about her except her criminal record, but they put me into emergency custody while they waited for something.

I’d only been there for less than a day when they found her in a car, though it didn’t feel like such a short time. Every second seemed to crawl along at a snail’s pace, every minute a temporal tar that I had become stuck in. 

The body they showed me wasn’t my mom, even though they thought it was.

Whoever it was looked almost identical. She was clearly a druggie; she looked almost skeletal, her hair was stringy and dirty, and she had blown a hole through her head. The thing is, I knew my mom. Something in her eyes didn’t match the body’s though. Furthermore, the face was shaped wrong, she was at least an inch taller than the body was, and that’s not to mention the fact that she would never have killed herself. 

If she had overdosed, I might have believed it. I’d been certain for years that she’d eventually do too much one night and die, but she’d never shoot herself. Not her. 

Of course, the police didn’t bother to identify her. There wasn’t any evidence of a murder, and her child was going through denial. Simple as that.

I knew my mom was out there somewhere, and I was going to find her. I had to.

#

I lay in bed the first night at my foster home restless and uneasy, under the first pair of blankets I ever had. The family they placed me in didn’t much agree with the lifestyle I’d been brought up in and sought to correct it. I was doubtful it would do much though, I knew more about addiction than any of them ever would. 

My new parents had greeted me with smiles grandparents always seem to have in movies, the smell of something or another wafting in from the kitchen. They fed me well, filling me with casserole and ice cream, told me that everything would be okay, tucked me into bed, all those charades people go through to seem nice.

The walls of my new room were barren, save for a generic night light they thought I might need. I’d left it off, coldly replying I didn’t need it.

Restless as I was, fatigue began to win out, and my eyes had begun to drift when the sharp sound of a breath, ending almost as soon as it started, cut through the still silence. Bolting up, my eyes darted around the room, looking for its source, though my efforts were fruitless. The grinding and thump of a window closing ended my search. That night, I felt some of the sheerest terror I’ve ever felt. If it weren’t for what happened later, it would be at the top. 

I remained awake all night, on the verge of tears I thought I’d run out of in the emergency custody. I still believe that if I had fallen asleep that night, I wouldn’t have woken up in that house. Of course, I didn’t bring it up with my new parents. I wasn’t sure how, and even if I was, they wouldn’t believe me. I didn’t think my mom had died, something they had proven had happened beyond a shadow of a doubt. So why should they believe something closed my window in the middle of the night? My night light was on that night, and the rest of the nights I spent there, which amounted to slightly less than three weeks. Every one of them, I was taunted by both memories of my mother and the thought that whatever had been outside my window would come back.

Apparently me living there wasn’t working out, or something to that effect. I didn’t mind much. The pair pissed me off more than anything, constantly rambling about how much I needed Jesus or some shit, and I was happy to get away from that room. I just wished I hadn’t had to leave so many clothes there.

I arrived at their house with nothing but the clothes on my back, and the day after I arrived, the three of us went to Walmart and bought me about ten pairs of clothes, as well as socks, underwear, and a pair of shoes. Since then, I had lost at least five socks and three pairs of underwear. 

Every family I’ve been with since has been similar. They all want to help me or something of that nature, only to get rid of me when my swearing and truancy wear them out. I’m never surprised anymore. I’m too cynical to trust anyone with anything.

I’ve begun sleepwalking since my mom disappeared. I was never a sound sleeper and it wasn’t uncommon for me to go take a piss in the middle of the night before going back to bed, but I always remembered it. Now I often wake up in a completely different place from where I went to bed, sometimes on the floor or a chair. I seem to take clothes from my new parents' room sometimes also. More than once I’ve found extremely stiff, dirty socks in my sheets. Of course, talking about that with anyone would just make things weird, so I never bring it up. 

#

The school I go to is a poor one. If a pipe burst, that bathroom wouldn’t be used for a month. If a ball popped, we simply didn’t have a ball unless someone brought one in. It wasn’t uncommon for people to have to stand because there weren't enough desks. As I mentioned, I never paid much attention in class, either because I didn’t care about what they were teaching or because I just wanted to be a ‘rebellious teenager’, I wasn’t sure which. My friends did the same.

I used to walk with my friends on the way home, but I couldn’t do that anymore. Instead, I rode the bus and got dropped off a couple of blocks from wherever I was living, walking home from there. I didn’t have any friends on the bus, but I wasn’t unused to keeping to myself. I hated most everyone around me anyways. 

Today though, getting off the bus was different. There were about five of us who’d get off at my current stop; however, today, two of them hadn’t shown up and those who had were less than a block away from where the bus left us. I usually walked home lonely, but this time I walked home alone. That was fine with me, as I said, I don’t talk to them or anything. The issue was the beat-up red Toyota that followed me. 

I had seen it a couple of times around the neighborhood, the first time a couple days after I moved in, always parked against the curb across the street from my new house. The fucked up left light made it look like it had cataracts, while the various dents and dings it had signaled that the driver might. I assumed that its owner lived across the street or something.

That afternoon, I stepped off the bus onto the cracked sidewalk, out of which a few small plants grew, the humidity making breathing slightly more difficult. The sun beat down on me and I kept my eyes on the ground, mostly to avoid talking to the possible people out in their driveways, and became lost in my thoughts. The sound of a car driving past snapped me back to reality. Only, it wasn’t driving past. It was driving by, going by at my pace.   

I kept an eye on it, suspicious. When it didn’t go past me, I became worried. I could see where my house was, if I could get there, I could lose the car and do – I don’t know, something about it. I started walking faster. It kept going at the same speed, but looking back, I was certain the driver was staring at me. My feet slapped against the sidewalk, a small clap ringing out with every step, and I began cursing under my breath as the car continued to follow.

“Shit, fuck, shit, fuck.” Each word lined up with the sound of my feet. The sound of the car’s engine and its wheels against the concrete were getting closer, but I couldn’t look back; I’d give myself away to him. “Shit, fuck, shit, fuck.” I was only a few houses away from my new parents’, the car was at least ten feet behind me, but the driver’s eyes were drilling into the back of my head, why was he following me, why the hell was he following me? “Shit, fuck, shit, fuck.” I was in front of the house now, I turned as quickly as I could, crossed the concrete path that led to the door and was inside, welcomed by an AC and safety. The door closed behind me, the latch clicking shut and signalling to me that I could calm down, the sound of the lock I turned confirming it. 

Looking out the window, the car continued its slow crawl, past the house I was in and down the street before it turned down a different one. I’m certain the driver’s eyes followed me the whole time, beams tracking my every move. 

I was jittery for the rest of that week. My eyes would dart around constantly, especially on the walk from the bus to my house. Oddly enough, when I saw the car again, I wasn’t scared. It was when I was walking into school this time. I was stepping off the bus when it caught my gaze, the dull red in the adjacent parking lot, almost like a brick, grabbed my attention from the corner of my eye, the cataract-ridden left light confirming its identity. My head snapped over to get a better view of the vehicle, and its driver seemed to recognize that I saw him, because he immediately began to drive away. I only thought about it later, but I should have tried to remember its license plate. 

I saw it later that day, driving past the school as I boarded the bus. That car has something to do with my mom’s disappearance, I’m sure of it.

#

The car was gone for a couple days, but I still kept waking up in places that I didn’t fall asleep. This time it was by the window, one of the socks I had worn to sleep now missing. When I saw it again, the final time, I followed it. This time, it wasn’t because it was following me. This time, it was at a grocery store.

I had ditched school that day to go dick around with some friends at the skate park behind the local Walmart and left to go take a piss, poking my head around the corner of the building to see if anyone was walking my way. I didn’t find any unintentional voyeurs, but I did find that beat-up red Toyota. 

This was a chance I couldn’t miss.

I wasn’t able to pick locks; it was a skill I had tried to learn multiple times with no success. Still, I decided to try the back door, only to find it unlocked. Looking inside showed me why.

It looked like a hoarder’s paradise. Fast food wrappers and cups littered the floor, random papers were scattered across the seats, and the smell of body odor permeated the car. Still, this was the closest I was probably ever going to be to learning what happened to my mom. Slightly disgusted, I crawled in and ducked behind the driver's seat, closing the door behind me.

I was in that oven of a car for almost twenty minutes before the driver arrived. I had never gotten a clear look at the driver of the car’s face, and for the first time I was able to glean a few details about his appearance as he got in and placed his bags of ramen noodles and soda in the passenger seat. 

His dark, stringy hair was a mess, unkempt and tangled with visible dandruff. He also looked like he did something, though not as bad as heroin. His cheeks and eyes were sunken in, and he had a pallid complexion. His mouth looked deformed, teeth discolored and bent at terrible angles. The dark bags under his eyes appeared so dark they seemed almost artificial, as if someone had placed dark mascara beneath his eyes. 

The most noticeable thing about him though, was the smell. It was as if he hadn’t showered in weeks and deodorant was a foreign concept to him. 

I placed my shirt above my nose and did my best to remain silent. 

He drove for about fifteen minutes, eventually arriving at an apartment complex near where I used to live. Grabbing the groceries in one hand, he opened the car door with the other and made his way inside, as I poked my head up and watched. I remained in the car at least three more minutes before I climbed out. 

The asphalt I stood on was cracked with potholes dotting the whole parking lot. If there ever had been lines to denote parking spaces, they had long since disappeared, faded as they were beaten down by the elements. Patches of weeds covered the lawn of the complex like a half-shaved beard, while the rest of it was overrun by patches of dead grass that hadn’t seen a drop of water in weeks. As depressing as the outside was, it reflected the mood that the building itself seemed to emanate. It appeared to droop, leaning to one side, if only slightly, like an unhappy teenager. Graffiti decorated it, covering the space not taken up by the doors to the rooms, its quality ranging from small masterpieces to crudely drawn penises, 69s, and 420s. 

I made my way to his door slowly, worried he’d hear my footsteps. Still, it was nothing compared to the squealing of the door as I opened it. 

The first thing that hit me was the smell, invading my nostrils, forcing me to begin gagging immediately. This wasn’t body odor, this wasn’t even trash, this was the smell of rot and decay that had been happening for weeks. I’d been around trash that had piled up for weeks, but I would have preferred to roll around in that than spend any more time in this. Holding back vomit, I continued inside. The sound of flies buzzing drifted in from the hallway.

The room was dim, the only light in the room casting a yellow glow over everything and was similar to the car. I couldn’t see the floor that had been covered in at least half a foot of food wrappers, used plates, bowls, and silverware, and trash bags, and stepping on something without making noise was a Herculean feat. 

It was when I was halfway through the den that I considered leaving. I could hardly stomach this, and there was nothing to indicate that this man had anything to do with my mom’s disappearance. It was seeing one of my missing socks that changed my mind.

It had been thrown unceremoniously in with the rest of the shit covering the floor, but it was there. Terrified, I made three large steps towards it, cringing each time a pile of wrappers crinkled beneath my feet, eventually grabbing it. I couldn’t tell what had happened to it, or why it was here, but it was definitely mine. At any rate, it was too small to be his. I couldn’t handle any more of the smells in this apartment. My shirt already covered my face; but even after covering my nose again with my elbow, I could still smell the rot. 

I moved deeper into the apartment when I realized something. He still hadn’t done anything to me. I’d simply assumed he hadn’t heard me, but, aside from the sound of the bugs, the rest of the apartment had been deathly quiet the whole time I’d been in here. Surely he’d heard me, so did he just not care? Still, I had to find out what I could, if not about my mom then about why he had my clothes.

After passing through his hallway, I learned where he was. He hid behind the bedroom door, staring intently at its entrance, and then me, until I was a few feet inside, when he stood up and ran at me. My heart jumped into my mouth, I could taste vomit, and I began to tear out of the bedroom. My fingers brushed against the door, but he tackled me before I could get away, shoving my head into the ground and an open burger wrapper, knocking the wind out of me.

Gasping for air, I wheezed out, “Why…the fuck…do you have…my clothes?”

He remained quiet, continuing to pin me to the ground. Doing my best to lift my head, I repeated myself. “Why do you have them?”

The only answer was his silence. I slammed my elbow back as hard as I could, praying to a God I thought had left me for dead long ago and connecting with his stomach. The weight that had kept me on the ground was removed, and I started to dart toward the door when I noticed his bed.

It was the source of the smell that hung over this entire apartment like a cloud.

It was the reason for all the flies in the apartment.

It was a body.

I was already dizzy, but seeing that made everything seem to tilt on its side. It had rotted to the point of almost being a skeleton, but what skin remained looked gangrenous, a grayish black like smoke from a wildfire. Maggots infested its orifices, mouth seeming to have sprouted new white, wriggling teeth, and eyes having grown new eyelashes. Flies swarmed it, creating a cloud almost entirely obscuring its features, but it was looking at its - no, her - body that made me feel faint.

She was completely nude.

Despite my attacker having regained his senses, I crumpled, curling into a ball and putting my head between my knees, breathing rapidly. Through my dizzying disgust, I whispered a simple question. “Why?”

Surprisingly, I got a mumbled answer this time, almost like it was coming from a child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “I missed her.”

I didn’t even look up. The room continued to swim before me, the floor remaining my center of gravity, the body my center of attention. A dribble of vomit escaped my lips, dripping down my mouth and onto my shirt, only adding to the putrid smell of the room. The abscess on her arm, just above her elbow, finally told me who she was.

“She wouldn’t have wanted you to see her like this, William,” he croaked, his voice cracking, as if he too was crying. 

I was suddenly brought back down to earth, my mind feeling as if it had suddenly become leaden and crashed into the ground. “How do you know my name?”

A stray tear leaked down his cheek and he stared at the body on his bed. “I always thought it was a beautiful name. And she did too.” 

I finally realized what it all meant. This man in front of me, this monster, he - no, no, thinking it made it real. “You motherfucker!” I roared, sending a fist into his mouth as hard as I could. He fell, but remained otherwise still, almost resigned to what would, and should, happen to him. 

“I missed you, too.” More tears fell from his face, now a steady stream. I continued to attack him, sending a fury of kicks into his stomach and head. Blood began to stream from his nose and mouth as his face became a mix of contusions and inhumanity.  The trash on the ground was stained a sickly red, diluted by his tears. Eventually, I ran out of energy and collapsed to the ground, panting and sobbing. 

“You motherfucker,” I said through my tears.

“I love you,” the monster said, voice trembling. “I love you so much.” He stood from his fetal position, shakily heading for his nightstand and opening the drawer. A flash of silver showed me what he pulled out even before he put it into his mouth.

The bang was deafening, reverberating off the walls and into my ears, which rang for minutes afterward. His body collapsed to the ground with a thump muted by the noise in my ears and the crinkling of everything on the ground. Blood leaked from his mouth and the back of his head, the flies swarming my mother’s body quickly taking up residence on his. Red decorated the wall in a flower, creating a macabre Jackson Pollock painting, excess dripping down the wall like that from a spray can. 

On legs that felt like they had never been used, I stood up and ran, not knowing where to. Eventually, I found myself in front of my old house. The only one I had ever called home.

The police found me later that night, curled into the fetal position with my knees shoving my eyes back into my skull so hard I was seeing spots, clothes sticky and face caked with snot and vomit. I didn’t say anything, I’m sure they just assumed I was still mourning or something. 

I became lethargic, never speaking, drinking little and eating less, spending most of my time lying in bed staring at nothing. Sleeping became a chore; I was haunted nightly by the scene that had played out in front of me days before. 

My mom used to be a heroin addict and had worked as a prostitute to pay for it. One night, a few months ago, she disappeared, and three days later, the cops said they found her with a hole in her head. I didn’t believe them, and now I would have given anything to have done so. 

Right now, I’m lying in bed with a bottle of antidepressants a doctor prescribed me. 

Now I’m bringing it up to my lips, the cold of the bottle an almost refreshing feeling.

Now I’m tilting it back and swallowing every pill that enters my mouth.

Now I’m going to sleep.

Maybe I’ll get some decent rest tonight.