Reincarnation
(a short story by Marta Tlałka)
If I was my mother and knew what I know now, I would take the sharpest knife in the kitchen and slit my daughter’s throat before she even took her first step.
I wouldn’t weep, cry or even think that what I did was wrong and horrible. No. For many people the act of killing is about revenge, about anger that spun out of control, that the action of taking somebody’s life is the evilest of the crimes one person can do to another.
Looking at my mother now, bundled up in her numerous blankets, I deeply pity her. From the other side of our living room, which is also my parent’s bedroom, I can see only her hair; black at the ends and grey at the roots. She’s sleeping, or maybe just lying awake, for the tenth hour straight. I’m not sure she’s breathing. I hope she’s breathing.
If I was my mother I would get rid of the one thing that has caused so many problems in my life. Even though that problem is her only child, well. What more can I say than “It happens”? Am I a monster? Probably. But killing her child – killing me – would made her life better. It is easier to breathe when the thing that is stealing your precious oxygen is dead and gone and buried six feet underground.
I stand near the door watching for any signs of life. The Cocoon – my mother, that is – hasn’t moved in about thirty-five minutes. The same radio station that I turned on before going out five hours ago, is playing songs of the past, of the time I wasn’t even born, of my mother’s childhood or maybe teen years. The yellow blinds are down even though it’s middle of the winter and sun hasn’t showed up in a week and won’t show for another five days. Only one little lamp is lit, the room smells like sweat and something musty. The breakfast I left a couple hours ago is still on the table, half eaten. I take one step closer to the Cocoon – still not moving, still no signs of breathing – to discover she – it – at least drank the cup of water I brought in the morning.
I kind of stopped worrying about my mother. Not that I don’t care for her wellbeing; she’s my core, one of the things that moves me forward.
I think she cares about me too. At least she did when I was a child, a wee thing with two blond ponytails, running around, never stopping. When I was eight years old I kicked a boy in my class and I still don’t know why. When I was ten I threw pencils, one by one, at least ten of them – my whole pencil case - at one of the boys in my school yard. I calmed down a little bit at the age of thirteen, stayed at home, had a few close friends, and up until the age of sixteen I partied rarely, never drank and thought smoking was gross. I liked to stay at home, preferably in my bed, and scroll all day long.
When I was thirteen years old my mother started wearing colourful clothes. Not shades of grey or brown, but colours. Blue, pink, red, black only to office, even yellow which didn’t suit her at all but she still wore that god awful yellow pencil skirt with matching jacket. I remember the skirt and jacket clearly, as it was something that my grandmother would wear is she was still alive.
A year later she got a promotion, and a raise, she moved to a better office, she went out more with her friends. I envied her in some way; my mother who was way past her teenage years was going out more than I did, a fourteen year old in the prime of her years.
Sometimes I hated mother for that. Hated for colourful clothes – even though she did buy some pink and violet t-shirts for me – when I wore black, constantly, twenty-four hours a day. Hated her for countless skirts, jackets, trousers. Every penny she spent was a penny lost, a penny for which I could buy so many better things.
When I was fifteen I wished my mother was miserable, just for one day. I wished for the tears to come, wished for the sound of scissors cutting all those dresses and skirts and trousers to shreds.
Yeah, I know, I was a daughter from hell.
Now, stepping closer to the Cocoon, I wished that things would go differently.
My mother was still there, somewhere. Did I dare to break the spell? Reverse the time? Change places with her?
If I was my mother, I wouldn’t let me be born. I would say “No, this child is going to curse me, curse my life, destroy everything. It’s going to suck the life out of me. Let it die.”
Because I did. I did everything.
Girls as old as fifteen shouldn’t envy their mothers. They should be loved and cherished. They should be listened to, allowed to go out more, to have more friends, to wear short skirts in minus two degrees Celsius just to see how quickly they can get cold and that their mother was right, you shouldn’t wore skirts in the middle of fucking winter.
Being a girl is hard. Being a teenage girl is a nightmare. Being a teenage girl with a more outgoing, younger mother than all of hers friends is a disaster just waiting to explode, killing everything and everybody, mutilating mother’s and daughter’s body.
I did not curse my mother, but if that really happened the explanation of the whole situation would be much easier. I also did not poison my mother nor put a spell on her. Things just… changed.
I started to go out more.
My mother started to go out less.
For my sixteenth birthday party I wore a cobalt blue dress, the first colourful thing I bought by myself in three years, and I looked fantastic. I can still remember the feeling of happiness, its taste on my tongue as sweet as honey. If this is what youth tastes like I would get in debt just to keep that feeling alive for the rest of my life. My mother also looked fabulous, in her dark brown gown with a golden necklace and matching rings. She looked classy, like a real woman who knew she was worth something.
Since that day I started to buy more things that weren’t black. My mother bought more things that were in various shades of grey.
Something started to crumble, in me and in my mother. The difference wasn’t noticeable, not at first. My aunt told me I grew up out of my ‘everything should be black because black is the best colour ever’ phase but she didn’t comment on my mother’s lack of colour. Nobody did at first.
My mother still went to work and met her friends but when she got home she had less energy to do, well, anything. She stopped doing the things she used to, like reading or cooking. Bed became her favourite place.
The more I went out the more my mother stayed at home.
And one day she didn’t go to work.
It was the first day of my life as a university student.
The Cocoon stirred a little bit and something that sounded like a yawn escaped it’s dark depth.
“Mother?” I stepped closer, bracing myself to see the worst. Hollow eyes, grey skin, everything.
The Cocoon stirred some more. Finally, she moved, long fingers with long pointy fingernails grabbed the blankets and for the first time in what seemed like forever I saw my mother’s eyes. Dark brown, they used to remind me of the colour of a melted chocolate. Now brownish and dirty swamp took its place.
“Do you need anything?”
She looked at me for a moment as if she didn’t know who I was, frowning slightly.
“A breakfast” she started breathlessly. “A breakfast would be nice.”
“Of course. Anything else?” She murmured something to herself, going back the Cocoon. “Ok then, breakfast it is.”
I went to the small kitchen and turned the stove on. I knew that scrambled eggs with chive was her favourite so I opened the fridge and took three eggs out. Walking to the kitchen table I glanced at a mirror on the wall and stopped for a moment to see if the other person was still me because sometimes I looked more like my mother than myself.
Chocolate eyes were staring at me. I touched ends of my black hair and lifted them to see if the dye still held. My nose was much like my mother’s but slightly bigger. A shame. Nevertheless, my face was round, cheeks rosy. No dark circles under the eyes, no signs of old age. I knew the wrinkles were coming, could feel them near my eyes and at the corner of my lips. At the age of forty I would probably look just like my mother.
I cooked scrambled eggs and added chopped chive. After two minutes another breakfast was ready and I would serve it on another plate. Then, after few hours, I would take the half eaten eggs, throw them away, just to make them again and again and again.
I sighted, pouring water into a cup, stirring it with crushed sleeping pill.
At least I hoped my mother dreamed of the past and not of the present nor the future that would never, ever come.
