Mummy's boy (standard:horror, 1917 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Jul 05 2007	Views/Reads: 3584/2209	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
What happens when a son loves his mother a little too much?

The knife dripped its last drop of blood onto the carpet, and Paul
Campbell stood in a state of confusion and panic. His mother lay 
motionless on her bed, blood glistening from the daylight from the 
windows. That was it, he thought. In a brief moment of madness, or was 
it sanity? he had stabbed his mother 46 times in her chest and neck. 
Blood had soaked the whole double-bed and was currently saturating the 
mattress. It also stained the carpet in crimson wet patches which 
glistened, even though they were in shadow. He dropped the blade and 
took a few steps back. He was breathing heavily. Despite her being 58 
years of age, and small and frail, the act of murder was exhausting. He 
was surprised that he didn't feel regret, but he was sure he would. He 
had loved his dear old mother, without doubt the bedrock of his life. 
Without her, he was sure his world would collapse. Paul was 36 years of 
age, worked in a bank, and had never left home, had never married, and 
thwarted the attentions of women who had tried to make him fly the 
nest, but in his own perspective, they were trying to sever the bond he 
had with his mother, and that was simply not going to happen, so 
intentionally single he had stayed, mothered by a devoted parent to 
their only child. His father had died of smoke inhalation three years 
after he was born in a fire where he had worked in a clothing 
manufacturers. So the bond between mother and son had never truly 
passed the childhood stage. She cooked for him, cleaned for him, bought 
his clothes, told him when it was bedtime. Basically, she had mothered 
him to such a state where he did not wish for outside influence. He did 
not want friends, not when he had his mother. He didn't want to be 
subjected to their bad influences, their desires, their persuasions. He 
had to block it out in the workplace. All of his wages went to his 
mother so she could look after them both, and the house. He found he 
didn't need money. He hardly went out to spend it. Occasionally he 
ventured with her to the supermarket to help with the shopping, but 
basically his world consisted of his workplace, which was mostly a 
humid office, the supermarket, and the house. He did not wish for 
anything else. His mother was his world, but now there she was, on her 
death bed. Now what am I going to do? he thought. The very act of 
causing harm to her usually abhorred him. He would never dream of 
hurting her. It had only happened once before when he had kindly 
offered to do the dishes. He had been washing a saucer when she had 
come into the kitchen and discovered that the milk had gone. She had 
accused him of drinking it, which he had, but her nagging had caused 
him to throw the saucer at her. It had missed, but he had immediately 
felt remorse and sorrow. Later, he had wondered what had caused that to 
happen, and remembered that earlier on that day, in his office, he had 
overheard one of his colleagues on a telephone engaging in a social 
call. The colleague had recently taken up exercise and had been 
discussing health foods. Of the snatches of one sided conversation he 
had heard, one of them had been: “....and drink plenty of milk”. This, 
he had guessed had probably caused a subconscious influence on him, 
which therefore had led to the milk bottle being empty. It was one 
major factor in why he did not like to mingle with other people, as 
they were dangerous. Tears for his mother would come. They would come 
like the base of a waterfall, but the shock of what he had done, and 
the surprise he felt in the realisation that he was capable of murder, 
would take a while to be replaced by emotion. Again, he remembered a 
snatch of a conversation he had overheard on the way back to the house 
from his work. Two women had been chatting on the pavement, one holding 
the hand of a bored looking boy of around eight years old. As Paul had 
passed by, he had heard: “....he stayed up till ten o'clock last night, 
didn't you?”. He wondered if this was another factor in the influence 
the outside world had over him. His mother had never let him stay up 
past eleven o'clock. It was a discipline he appreciated. He knew he was 
susceptible to influences, but his mother kept him in check, kept him 
balanced. Without her, he didn't know what would become of him, how he 
would cope. At work, he was not the most popular employee. In fact, 
nobody liked him. He was the office loner, talking to colleagues always 
on a professional level. He liked it that way. If somebody tried to 
speak to him about anything other than work, then he would become 
tetchy and irritable, so nobody bothered. New employees soon learned 
his mannerism. Yet, bad influences had infiltrated his mind again, and 
resulted in his mother lying on the bed, staring up at nothing. Not my 
fault, he thought. I'm not responsible. Yet, his conscience wouldn't 
let him think that way. Wouldn't ease the burden he'd brought upon 
himself. Yes, it was my fault. If I hadn't been manipulated, maybe mum 
would still be here. Upon hearing the mother of the child mention that 
the boy had stayed up late, he decided he could do the same himself. He 
was simply watching television. It was a wildlife documentary about 


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