Black Boxes. Caroline Smailes

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      Your mother.

      I can't find a definition that fits.

      I have no idea what a mother is supposed to be.

      I have no mother.

      [sound: distant rumbling of low flying aeroplane]

      I have read somewhere.

      I have heard somewhere.

      It is blurred.

      My memory is blurred.

      But the relationship that a man has with his mother is an indicator.

      A flashing red light.

      A signal.

      For something.

      But I don't know what that something is.

      I can't remember.

       ~Help me to remember.~

       ~Please.~

      [silence]

      Your mother.

      We had been together for three years and I had not met her.

      I asked about her.

      I heard you speak to her on the phone.

      And I'd ask questions.

      About you and her.

      But you didn't want to tell me.

       ~Am I making you feel uncomfortable?~

      You'd tell me the curriculum vitae stuff.

      But if I questioned the relationship that you shared.

      You'd tell me, my mother is nothing to do with you.

      You'd tell me, my mother is my ideal woman.

      [voiced: ideal woman]

      [volume: low]

      Those words have stuck.

      You'd tell me, my mother is everything that I could hope for within a woman.

       ~That's a bit odd really.~

       ~Don't you think?~

       ~Of course I am not making this up!~

      I should have delved into that a bit more.

      But I didn't.

      I can't believe that I was that stupid.

      So for three years I didn't meet her.

      I feared her instead.

       ~Did you have sex with your mother?~

       ~Did she make you thrust into her until she came all over your cock?~

      I often wonder(ed).

      I have my suspicions.

      [voiced: unrecognisable words]

      [volume: low]

      Your mother had divorced your father when you were three years old and your sister five.

      She still kept the Edwards, but added a Knight to form a double barrel.

       ~Yes I know that you know these details!~

      Your mother had divorced your father because she preferred being single.

      She wanted to do as she pleased.

      She didn't want to answer to anyone else.

      It wasn't about sex.

      It wasn't about the double barrel.

      Or so you told me.

      And from the day of her divorce.

      From the stories and details that I have grabbed.

      Well your mother planned out every aspect of both yours and your sister's lives.

      Your life was to be straight.

      A straight line from here to there.

      I was a pot hole.

      A black tumbling hole.

      And when she said jump.

      You did.

      Right over me.

      [voiced: unrecognisable word]

      [volume: low]

      Your mother was an academic.

      Penny Edwards-Knight, the academic.

      She travelled the country with a pharmaceutical company.

      And was paid a yearly fee by them.

      A fee.

      I love(d) that you called it a fee.

      It made it sound so insignificant.

       ~It wasn't though was it?~

      She was a consultant.

      A researcher.

      An academic who was easily bought.

      Her opinions altered to suit the drug that she was being paid to promote.

      And as you'd boast details about your high-flying goddess.

      I'd think of her as a chameleon.

      A scaly, hard-skinned reptile who changed to fit with her environment.

      A crusty reptile slinking around dragging a huge sack of gold behind her.

      I hated your mother before I even met her.

      I hated your mother when I met her.

      The feeling was mutual.

      I could see it in her eyes.

      I could hear it twist from her tongue

       ~Did she ever wrap you up with her tongue?~ СКАЧАТЬ