Parental guidance (standard:Psychological fiction, 2516 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Dec 18 2024	Views/Reads: 20/6	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Parents know what's best for you, don't they? No really...don't they?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

musician! son, there's no money there. It's not going to pay the bills. 
Only the lucky few get to make money out of something like that. You're 
going to need a stable job, then you can take it up as a hobby, but you 
need security behind you first. Don't forget, we're your parents, and 
we know what's best for you. 

Well, that was that. They shattered my dreams of becoming a classical
musician, so I sold the clarinet I had bought, and knuckled down into 
being what they wanted me to be. When I left higher education, I got a 
job in a staffing agency, providing temporary workers for various 
firms. Dad wasn't exactly too pleased, but neither was he unhappy. 
That's not bad, he said. For now, but you know you can do better. 
Onwards and upwards. 

Then I went to work for an estate agent as a sales negotiator, and
received an Audi Quattro company car. My parents were ‘quite' happy. 
You could say I was one of those people whose life is their job. Who, 
in their enforced spare-time, think of nothing but work. On holiday 
abroad, ringing the office back in England to check everything was 
okay, reading and responding to work-related emails on my laptop. 

Perhaps that was one reason I never sought out a companion. A
girl-friend or wife. They would divert my attention when my attention 
needed to be on becoming successful, would want my time when I needed 
to be earning. 

Besides, I didn't want to get involved with all that icky nonsense that
couples get up to. 

Plus kids...absolutely not. I had to focus on myself and pursue my
ambition. 

It was then that I realised that mum and dad were going nowhere. They
were the resilient type, would probably reach their nineties or older 
before they died, and there was probably about twenty years to go 
before they got there. 

Twenty years where I could be playing clarinet in orchestras all over
the world. My dream realised. 

Yet, they would not let me out from under their wings, even though I was
fifty-seven years old. 

So what could I do? How could I break free from their grip? 

Murder was out of the question. Police didn't take too kindly to that,
and they would shatter my dreams even further. Playing in a prison 
orchestra was, well, extremely unrealistic. 

So how could I get rid of my parents and realise my dreams? Quit my job
and take up music. 

Poison. 

If I could slowly poison them, then maybe that would work. So during
breaks at work, or when I could, I did a deep dive into the depths of 
the internet to find out what poison I could use that could be 
untraceable, or at least not get back to me. 

It took a while. There's a lot of nonsense there. A lot of waffle. A lot
of stuff even I didn't understand. Scientific jargon only a small 
amount of chemistry geeks would know, but nothing I could use. Seems 
the internet is not the haven of information that it's made out to be. 
It was when I was at a colleague's leaving party. Well, I say party. 
More like just a get together in a nearby pub. The type where all the 
staff get an invite, and only a few actually show up. No-one cared too 
much about this person. Meticulous, dour, with an air of superiority. I 
decided this time I would go along. I was having trouble thinking of 
ways to off my parents, so thought I would show willing, and stay for 
an hour or so after work. 

Another colleague brought along his teenage son who sat most of the time
slumped on his mobile phone, and of course at some point the attention 
comes to me. 

So Tristram, what have you been up to? 

By this time I'd had half a shandy, but I was still sober. Sort of.
Enough to know how to say what I said. 

‘Well I've been thinking of murdering my parents. I'm thinking of
poison, but I don't know what to use,' I said with a smile on my face, 
and everybody laughed, and of course I said it in such a way that I was 
obviously joking. To them I was, but I was desperate for any methods. 
Without hesitation, it was the teenage boy who had been dragged here 
reluctantly that said: “Rhubarb leaves. Boil them in a kettle. That'll 
remove oxalic acid, then put it in their tea, as it's tasteless. Enough 
of it should kill them after a few hours”. The others all looked at him 
for a few seconds, then carried on with their so-called merriment. 
Clearly he was joking. 

Right? 

So I decided to try it. Every Sunday I go to the house for a visit,
being a good son. I go around to update them on what I've been up to. 
Yes, they are proud of me, but not to the level they really wanted. 
Like if I was an Olympic athlete that had won silver, they would 
probably say: ‘Well done son, we're proud of you...but, it's not quite 
gold is it?' At one point in every visit there would come the time when 
I would go into the kitchen and make them tea. Perfect time to boil the 
leaves in the kettle and pour it into their cups. 

The leaves were easy to smuggle in, but how many to use. One leaf? Five?
I didn't want to kill them, just have them removed from my life so I 
can truly spread my wings. 

I decided on two leaves. Not too many, and not too few. 

So I made them their brew and took the steaming cups into the living
room and watched them sip away as I told them how I interpreted the 
statistical data regarding the company's potential performance on the 
stock exchange, and if you must know, I don't think it would fare too 
well. 

I wondered if I would need to build up the poison in their systems over
time. Watch them fade away. 

Turns out though, the poison works straight away, and I sat there and
watched as my parents coughed and spluttered, retched and vomited, 
doubled up with stomach pains, trying to breathe, and them both 
suffering slow haemorrhages as they twisted around on the living room 
floor. 

I held my mobile phone in hand, in no rush to call for an ambulance,
but, knew I had to, so I did, and that was that. Along came a whole 
load of hassle, of paperwork, of police questions, suspicion, and 
downright sheer annoyance. Red-tape nonsense. Fill this form in, make 
this appointment, sign here, sign here, sign here...because it turns 
out the oxalic acid, along with the potassium in the leaves, in my 
mother anyway, led to fluid build-up, and pressure on the brain, 
leading to cell damage, which is similar to what happened to my father. 
His haemorrhage starved his brain of oxygen, leading to the eroding of 
brain cells, including those of memory, so he doesn't recognise me 
anymore. Now they are both in the same care-home, and the ironic thing 
is, neither of them know each other. They're strangers in there. So 
that was an extra little bonus for me, plus the fact that I have access 
to all their money, so it's all being paid for with their savings, and 
one day I went in and looked my dad square in the face, and you know 
what? He seemed to look right through me. Didn't know who I was. “Now I 
can realise my dreams, Dad” I said, “you will no longer hold me back, 
so goodbye, and fuck-you”. I looked at my mother as well. There was 
some flicker of recognition in her eyes, but neither of them could 
talk, so it didn't matter, and I left that place with the intention of 
never going back. 

I was free. 

I had enough money to get by, so quit my job and bought a clarinet. I
knew that I could find work easily if need be, and probably go back to 
my job even if I was replaced. Basically, I'm convinced that if I told 
the boss I wanted to come back, whoever my replacement was would be 
sacked on the spot. 

So I practiced the clarinet. Turns out I picked it back up quite easy,
but what is not easy is finding groups or places to play. Finding 
opportunities is quite difficult. I went back to the university to try 
and join them, and was given rather short shrift, told that I needed to 
be a student or hired in through an agency. I can't just come in and 
join, even though I used to be a student there. 

I was very tempted to write a letter to a solicitor about that, but
instead wrote a stern review online. 

Still, I was out of options, until I found an amateur classical music
group that met weekly, who already had someone who played clarinet, but 
the group was quite versatile, and each member could turn their hand to 
any instrument. Well, I say could, they at least had a go. I tried the 
harp, and the saxophone, and they were okay, but I stuck with the 
clarinet mostly, and after a few months of going to the group, I was 
invited to join them on excursions out to various venues. Playing 
outside a supermarket for charity. Playing for visitors getting off a 
cruise ship down at a terminal, and in parks at various events and 
festivals. Nothing what I was truly expecting. I wanted to play the 
bigger theatres. I wanted to go abroad, to wow audiences and earn 
plaudits and praise for my talents. 

Until it hit me. 

The realisation struck me as if I'd just been slapped. They were pipe
dreams. Dreams that were very unrealistic, even though I'd taken 
several steps in their direction. 

You see, the thing was... 

Was this really what I wanted to do with my life? 

What did I really aspire to? Playing classical music to big arenas was a
nice dream, but not as a career. More a hobby. Something to do on the 
weekend. 

I asked myself, was my heart really in it? 

I thought about it for a while, until my brain handed me the answer. 

No. 

What I really yearned for, was to be a successful businessman. 

Turns out my parents were right. They knew what was best, correct, and
right for me. They always did. Had my interests at heart. 

I wanted to please them, to make them proud, but I think I failed. 

Even now, all I want to do for them is obey...obey...obey.


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