Mummy's boy (standard:horror, 1917 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Jul 05 2007	Views/Reads: 3591/2217	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
What happens when a son loves his mother a little too much?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

venomous snakes. She decided that that programme was decent enough for 
him to watch. She would vet his programming, and not let him watch 
anything too violent, or too risqué. Again, he appreciated this. There 
were bad influences everywhere, and she did a good job of keeping him 
sane, keeping him pure. Most people had good and bad elements of 
varying degrees, and Paul liked to think he had no negativity within 
him. He was a good son, who made his mother proud, and by doing that, 
he made himself proud. Yet, in suppressing his bad elements to such a 
degree, it was like a spring, pressed down. His overwhelming goodness 
kept the coil at bay, but when negative influences crept in, it would 
spring up, until his positivity pressed it down again. It wasn't 
pressed now though. It had sprang up and caused him to get so angry, 
that the only reason he had stopped stabbing was through sheer 
exhaustion. He simply physically could do it no longer, but the desire 
to keep stabbing had subsided, and he realised what he had done. His 
purity had vanished in that act. Perhaps he was not simply ‘bad', but 
evil. It was an evil act, but he still liked to think of himself as a 
good person. The very fact that his mother day dead before him was 
testament to the fact that he could become bad, could be susceptible to 
outside influences, which in turn, could change his behaviour, could 
make him perform an evil act. He was right to shun other people's 
company, if this was what they could make him do, he thought. They had 
taken his mother, had caused his negativity to spring up and turn him 
into a rage filled individual, who had simply said to his mother: ‘Can 
I stay up another fifteen minutes to watch the end of this programme?' 
‘No, you can't' she had said. ‘You know it's past your bedtime. Get up 
those stairs, and I want the light off by the time I get up there'. 
Paul had angrily stormed up the stairs, changed into his pyjamas, and 
was about to follow his mother's orders when she came in to reprimand 
him for angrily walking away. With a wagging finger, and a stern 
expression, she was going to give him a severe scolding, but Paul was 
still angry, and picked up her husband's fishing knife that she had 
kept for sentimental and aesthetic purposes on a sideboard, and sent it 
into her neck without hesitation. He looked at the other side of the 
bed. It was glistening crimson. I can't sleep there tonight, he 
thought. Maybe never again. No more tucking in. Sometimes he regretted 
the fact that she never read to him anymore before he went to sleep. 
She had stopped reading, not a children's book, but a fantasy novella 
aimed at teenagers. It had reached its conclusion three years ago, and 
she had never read to him since. Perhaps, he thought, he was a little 
old for that kind of thing. Mother knows best. He turned and walked out 
onto the landing, and descended the stairs, his blood soaked pyjamas 
cold against his skin. He slowly made his way into the living room, and 
sat in her favourite armchair. The television was still on. He saw that 
the credits were rolling for the end of the programme he had wanted to 
watch. He was tired, and his eyelids began to droop slightly. He was 
suddenly jolted awake by his mobile telephone ringing. It was in his 
coat in the hall. He slowly made his way towards it, rummaged through 
his pockets until he found it, and saw that the screen read: ‘Anonymous 
call'. He answered it. “Hello,” he said, “Who's that?”. “I know what 
you've done,” came a hoarse voice. “I know. Someone's been a very bad 
boy, and don't think that...” Suddenly there seemed to be a disturbance 
on the other end of the line, as though the person had been distracted. 
“I'll speak to you later,” the voice said “Keep your phone on”. The 
call was ended, and Paul heard nothing. That was it, he thought. I'm 
caught. Perhaps prison might not be such a bad place. With mother gone, 
I'm going to find it very difficult to look after myself. Yet, he 
wanted to stay to feel her presence. The house would surround him in a 
loving mother's embrace. Who knew? he thought, who was it? and how did 
they know? The police will find me anyway when the man tells them. I 
might as well hand myself in. Perhaps I'll get a lighter sentence that 
way, and if I do that, then the sooner I'll be back here. He walked out 
of the house, slowly making the one mile trek to a police station. 
People stared in fascination at him as he walked, but he ignored them, 
just like he would have done if it had been a normal day.  The place 
was quiet. A policeman who appeared to be in his late fifties was sat 
reading a newspaper. Paul ambled in and fell to his knees. The man 
stared at him with trepidation. “I've killed my mother” Paul said, 
loudly. “I've killed her”. Suddenly, the mobile telephone in his hand 
rang. He'd forgotten he was carrying it. The policeman didn't move. 
Paul answered after a few moments hesitation. He was breathing heavily. 
“Yes,” he said, quietly. “I know,” the voice said again. “I know who 
you are, and what you've done, what you're doing. I know you're 
stealing from the bank you work at. Well, cut me in, and I won't say 
anything”. Paul dropped the telephone, and put his bloodied hands to 
his bloodied face. 


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