Mama’s Boy

The bag thrown haphazardly on the bed was giving Simon an accusatory look.

“Shut up,” Simon spat back, though the bag hadn’t said anything.

He wasn’t sure what he was meant to pack. That is to say, he didn’t know how to pack for a trip like this, and he was frozen with indecision on whether he should pack extra winter jumpers or steal some food from the pantry. He wouldn’t need that much, right? He knew it was a long trip from London to Edinburgh, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t get any of this on the way. He knew the bag was already overstuffed, with sentimentality. Simon hated that about him. His possessiveness over little, pretty things he couldn’t let go of. That was why his bag was packed with a quarter clothes and essentials, and three quarters random photos, books, and gifts he’d received over the last eighteen years of his life. He’d taken everything out and tried to repack it three times already, and had only succeeded in letting go of a few primary school copybooks and a small, ceramic dog with a crack through the middle of it’s body.

He hadn’t even liked half of these stupid presents. His mother had bought them for him when he was a kid, the effort and thought put into them drastically declining as he grew and she got sicker. Still, he thought to himself as he rummaged through the pile of junk, it’s something she bought for me. Receiving anything in good faith from his mother anymore was like finding a corner in a round room. Vastly unexpected, and almost frightening. Luckily for Simon, it almost didn’t happen at all, which allowed him the grace to slip into a routine with her. It was his birthday today, in fact, and she’d forgotten once again. He hadn’t, though. October 3rd. The day he’d finally leave this place.

He wasn’t sure when he got the idea he was going to leave, or why. He had just, one day, suddenly been struck with a nauseating need to get out. He had a little money saved - another gift his mother had given him that he hadn’t wanted was taking him out of school when he was fifteen, to dedicate more time to taking care of her during her ill health. Which, as it turned out, was Simon’s worst nightmare. He hadn’t been particularly fond of school, but it was a few hours of relief from the stress of home, where his only responsibilities were to get his homework turned in on time and goof off with his mates when they felt like it. Now he was working part-time at the newsagents, and he didn’t talk to his friends anymore. He hated it, but at least when his epiphany hit him, he had the funds to back up his plans. He’d called his uncle in Scotland when he figured he couldn’t put it off any longer, to ask if there was any space at his flat for a little while, until he found a job. He hadn’t been shocked when he was flat out refused, but he was surprised when his uncle had sent him a listing for a studio apartment he’d be able to get by in for a little while. Next thing was to book his train, and, well - now the next thing was to leave.

When he’d finally decided on which other sentimental items could be sacrificed (only the one - a plush toy his mother had fished for him out of a charity shop bin when they were younger than had always smelled a little fusty) he descended the stairs, holding his breath as he walked. He gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles had turned pure white, faint at the idea of what he’d have to do next. To tell his mother. He knew full well he wasn’t brave enough to do this, but he had no choice. She needed to know the details about the carer he’d paid in advance for, that the neighbour was instructed to drop in with groceries once a week. He’d thought about putting her into a care facility, terrified she’d have an accident as soon as he left her on her own, but that cost a considerable amount more than Simon could afford right now, so he’d put it on a mental to-do list for when he had a source of income again.

His mother was sat where she always was, in her wheelchair, in front of the TV. She looked so frail when nobody was paying attention to her, her expression a little softer, as her steady stream of quiz shows and reality TV poured out of the speakers. Simon swore she must’ve forgot her own pain, her own sickness, when she lost herself in the television. He’d always hated the tinny sound that blared from the screen all day long, but he’d tolerate it all day just to watch her perk up a little. But not even the promise of a small smile as she drowned herself in the brain rotting nonsense could keep him here, now. The house around him felt radioactive, like it was unspooling the fabric of who he was the longer he stood here. He fought the urge to keep walking towards the front door, slamming it behind him, and trying to forget the last eighteen years of his life.

Instead, he stood at the open archway of the living room, waiting until she craned her neck to look back towards him. Her brow was already furrowed, and she pressed her lips together in disapproval at the disturbance. He cleared his throat, doing a last revision of his careful script, and began to speak involuntary words that he had not prepared.

“I just - her name is Clara? Your new carer, she’s coming around this evening and I, I told her to bring you that haddock thing from the takeaway - your favourite, I remembered, then - uh, Mrs. Gardiner will be, uh…” Simon swallowed, waiting for his mother’s expression to change.

“I - I’m leaving, mum? I’m going, there’s people here to take care of you.”

Simon’s mother had always been hard to get a reaction out of, but he hadn’t considered that apathy would extend to his declaration. Mostly, he’d anticipated screaming, guilt-tripping speeches, demanding he not set a foot outside the door. Instead, she just sniffed, and returned to her show.

“You’re getting my medicine? Make it quick, it’d do you some good to go out and get some exercise, anyways.” Simon blinked, ignoring the hot flush in his cheeks as he shook his head. She always had something to say about his weight, even now.

“No - mum, I’m not getting your medicine, I’m going. I’m not coming back. That’s why - it’s - there’s a carer coming, she’s gonna look after you inste-”

“Stop stuttering, Simon, I can’t understand you when you can’t get your words together like this. Speak up,” she hissed, the sting of her words smarting more than he thought they would. Did she not care at all about what he was saying?

Simon’s eyes flicked to the pantomime flashing on the TV, some trashy American soap with a group of women screaming at each other. His mother didn’t take her gaze off of it, evidently waiting for Simon to stop rambling at her so she could go back to her show.

He felt himself grip his bag tighter and turn on his heel, legs moving of their own accord to the front door. Simon felt like he was dragging himself away from everything he wanted to say to her, spit back all the venom she’d tortured him with since he was a kid. The door handle was cool under his sweating palm, and he didn’t realise he had stepped outside until the sound of the door shutting behind him knocked him out of his stupor, forcing a strained noise out of him that had been stuck in his throat since he started packing his bag. He didn’t let himself stop moving, almost breaking into a run to make his train, moving from the quiet suburban streets of his estate to the bustling roads of the city, weaving between people gracelessly as his heavy bag swung him left and right. He arrived for his train an hour too early and ended up pacing up and down the platform while he waited for the damn thing to pull in, trying his best not to watch the clock. There was a part of him that was so certain the new carer he’d spent a chunk of his savings on would come looking for him, telling Simon his mother was hysterical, begging for him to come back, and he wouldn’t have to heart to tell her no.

Worse, though, he didn’t get so much as a phone call in the end. His train pulled up and he stepped on silently, exhausted, and ended up passing out staring at his phone’s empty Home Screen, pursing his mouth shut to stop his lip trembling like a child.

When Simon woke up eighteen years old on October 3rd, his eyes were already on the empty bag in the corner of the roo-

What?

Simon sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes. Had he dreamed the whole thing? He was so sure he’d already lived through this day, but he can’t have, the date on his phone told him as much. He felt unnerved, the vivid memory of the dream sticking around like a bad taste in his mouth.

He packed his bag again, once he had oriented himself, albeit slowly. He didn’t bother sneaking downstairs for breakfast like he had in - in the dream? He felt perturbed. He was sure that had really happened, but it couldn’t have. He swore he could still taste the stale, over-buttered toast, though. He didn’t need to go through the rigorous process of trying to pick out which special things could come with him to Edinburgh, having subconsciously decided, apparently. The cracked dog and the schoolbooks stayed firmly in the bag.

Simon came back down the stairs, swallowing back fear as he stepped into the living room.

“Mum -”

“Simon. Go get my prescription for me, I’ve only a few days left, you should’ve had this done sooner.” She spat back. He stood dumbly, giving his mother a long, incredulous look, pushing down the disappointment in his chest with a long, deep breath.

Simon didn’t bother to hang around to explain anything. He pushed his way out the front door and paced up the streets of his winding estate, muttering curses under his breath and swearing he’d never come back here as long as his mother was alive. She had people to look after her, now - she wasn’t his problem. He ignored the fact he had left all his contact information written down on his bedside table before he stormed out, some frustratingly hopeful part of him willing her to throw herself onto his bed now that he was gone, looking for breadcrumbs to find him and bring him home. It was a fantastical wish, to begin with. His mother very rarely could get out of her wheelchair any more, only to get from her bed to the living room or to the bathroom, if Simon wasn’t helping her. She wasn’t the young woman that lived in the memories of his childhood, a tight-lipped, disinterested mother, but an able-bodied one. She wouldn’t be able to make the dramatic run up the stairs to weep into the worn sheets he hadn’t swapped out since he was eleven, navy blue and covered in stars. She didn’t even know he was gone, for Christ’s sake.

Contrary to what his dream may have foretold, Simon ended up running to get onto his train before the doors slid shut, with only a minute or so to spare. Sweltering in the winter coat he’d thrown over the rest of his clothes - just in case the weather turned unexpectedly - Simon collapsed into the plush seat of the train, heaving with his head in his hands. He finally shed the torturous layers keeping him bound in heat, before the train set off, slow and creaking. He was grateful, suddenly, that he’d splurged a little to have lunch included as part of the trip, suddenly starving from his sprint to the platform, the skipped breakfast doing nothing to help. The countryside slid past as he waited silently for someone to walk by and take his order, and his eyes grew weary, images of what waited for him at the end of the line plastering a silly smile onto his face. Images turned into moving paintings, taking fuzzy, uncertain forms as he slipped into dreams, pulling his arms in on hims-

When Simon woke in his bed on the morning of his eighteenth birthday for the third time, he didn’t move for a long time.

He can’t have dreamed it twice in a row. He had really lived yesterday, and he was fairly certain now the day before that hadn’t been a dream, either. His phone smugly reminded him it was still October 3rd, and he was still in stuck in this house.

Simon sat up slowly, leaning back against the headboard and taking stock of his surroundings. Nothing in his room was any different than it had been for the last year or so, and certainly nothing had changed since his first October 3rd. The Star Trek poster on his wall was still lopsided and dog-eared, and the room smelled of fresh linen, just washed the night before. His mouth had gone bone dry, and he was struggling to keep his breathing even. What the hell was he meant to do? Just - stay here and pretend -

No, he couldn’t stay here. The air was still as poisonous as it had been the last three mornings, and he couldn’t fight the drag of the promise of freedom. He just needed to think clearly, and be level-headed about this. Don’t fall asleep on the train - easy. That’s where it kept going wrong, when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He didn’t so much think about the why, just the how to beat it. Simon began the process of re-packing his bag, no longer paying attention to the more ridiculous items on his shelf that had ended up in the bag twice now, old spelling bee trophies now staying dusty beside the ceramic dog. He took only a handful of particularly sentimental gifts and enough clothes to keep him right for the next few days, before slamming it shut and stomping down the stairs.

“Simon -” his mother began, ready no doubt to spit venom at him for making so much noise as his heavy boots hit the creaky stairs, but he wasn’t listening. He’d sorted out the carer for her, she’d be fine, he couldn’t waste time hanging around. His first stop was the corner shop he’d spent the last three years begrudgingly working at to buy a six-pack of syrupy-sweet energy drinks he hated. He wasn’t going to wake up back in that bed again. Maybe if he could just get through the train journey, that would be it - he’d be safe in Edinburgh for good, free from the responsibility. He was hours early for his train journey this time, anxiously tapping his foot as he watched the clock tick away. He didn’t eat - the hunger kept him alert.

He made it to Edinburgh. It wasn’t nearly as difficult as he presumed it would be, but his own hyper-vigilance contributed to his sleeplessness on the long trip. He still had one or two of the energy drinks, leaving him with shaky hands and a racing mind. He was lost in Edinburgh for a long time, trying to liaison with the unhelpful landlord who seemed averse to telling him where he was waiting for Simon with any specificity. He was lucky to have got the keys and the contract in his hand at all, he reckoned, but at least it was done. The click of the door shutting behind him when he finally made it to his new home was a near-liturgical sound. It took all his strength not to drop to his knees and holler to God above that he’d finally made it. He felt safe with a locked door behind him, with a kitchen he would walk around freely and no TV blaring in the cramped flat. The furniture was barebones, and every wall could do with a fresh lick of paint, but it was his space now, for him to take all the time in the world to make cosier, more his own, if he wanted. He didn’t have covers for his duvet, but he wrapped himself up in the bare blanket anyways, giggling with excitement at the prospect of newfound freedom. His mother was fine. She was in good hands, and he could drift off into peaceful sleep, knowing he’d wake in the warm cocoon of a bed that was now his, snuggling deeper into the navy and the - stars, with a Star Trek poster hanging on the wall, fuck - no!

The next few times he wakes up back in London, he starts experimenting.

Maybe there was a trick to breaking the loop? Some series of events that would free him from this torture? Maybe it was his own ineptitude, his inability to see what was right in front of him that made it so-very-difficult for Simon to understand what was happening. He’d never been the brightest boy, as his mother loved to remind him. So, he tried changing the formula. He left later at night, after getting his mother settled down for bed. He tries sneaking out - maybe it has something to do with her knowing she’s leaving? Sometimes he doesn’t even bother go to the train, just walking outside his house and continuing to walk until he couldn’t anymore. He’d tried walking in and screaming in her face every horrible thing she’d done before, told her in no uncertain terms what he thought of her and that she would never see him again – no matter how much that broke his heart.

No matter what he tried, he’d still wake up under his navy blue bedsheets, the bag in the corner daring him to try again. Most days, now, he didn’t bother to bring it with him, sick of packing and repacking it in a loop.

Some days were harder than others, as he tried to figure out the puzzle he was trapped in. A few days after he’d made it to Edinburgh the first time, he’d woken up with his vision significantly worse, the lenses of his expensive prescription glasses made completely useless by his near-complete blindness. He’d still made it out of the house, but he stumbled and fell more times than he could count on his was into the city, grasping at streetlamp and crumbling brick wall to try orient himself. After all that, he missed his train, and couldn’t find his way onto the next one that evening, despite trying his best to find anyone that could help guide him where he needed to go.

When he woke the next morning, back in that stupid room, his vision had returned to normal.

He could never predict when he would change. In some crippling, severe way, like the house was throwing sickness at him to try keep him tied to his room. The day he’d first planned to march downstairs and scream at his mother until he was blue, he’d woken with no idea how to speak, his tongue heavy and unmoving in his mouth. His mother didn’t take any notice of his struggle as he tried desperately to even spit one word out, simply instructing him to move out of the way and leave her in peace.

The worst was the morning he woke small and frail, tiny: a distorted version of himself, ten years old and shaking, stared back at him in the mirror. His mother was unchanged, still old and sick and disinterested as he ran out of the house, stumbling and unsure how to pace himself with such a small gait. That had been a particularly miserable escape attempt: it’s one thing to see a grown man running onto a train alone, it’s another thing entirely to watch a kid jump on unsupervised. He’d been promptly chased back off and forced to spend most of the day hiding, eventually nestling into a particularly uncomfortable bush before giving up and starting again.

Simon didn’t know how many weeks of escapes passed before he sat down in front of his mother.

“You’re doing this, aren’t you?”

He didn’t know how he knew this, but he felt it in his bones. His mother looked different - he would have said she looked frailer than usual, but that wasn’t right. She looked sharper, the edges of her drawn out and spindly. She appeared strangely elongated like something had stretched her out in increments, until she looked just unnatural enough to draw the fear out from Simon.

He wondered if she would even notice the days were repeating. All she did was drag herself out of bed to shout at Simon and watch TV. How could she tell any difference? She barely paid attention to him as he stormed out of the house over and over again, just kept making some vague comment to him about her medication or his weight.

Well, he thought bitterly, of course she knows it’s repeating. She’s the one doing this.

His mother shifted, bones twisting under his skin, as she redirected her gaze towards him.

“Aren’t you tired, Simon? Of playing this game?”

Simon swallowed.

“No. I’m getting out of this; I don’t care how long it takes me to find my way. You don’t get to keep me here forever.”

His mother laughed, then, and Simon felt frozen: it was an unnatural sound, that reminded him of canned laughter in sitcoms. Was that what his mother’s laughter sounded like? Was that what anyone’s laughter sounded like? It was so fake, so artificial, like a bad recording being played back to him. His mother hadn’t much cause to laugh anymore, but he was certain it had never sounded like that, even when she was just humouring him.

“You think there’s a way out? Is that why you keep leaving? Don’t you think you would’ve found it by now?”

His mother was grinning now, eyes wide and staring at him. He felt unnerved at the sudden undivided attention, unexpectedly willing her to go back to her catatonic normalcy he’d been trying to break her out of for years.

Simon felt his jaw set, his heart pounding against his ribcage.

“There is a way out. There has to be.”

His mothers smile widened, breaking up through her cheeks and stretching her skin. Simon shuddered.

“There is one. Give up,” she hissed, leaning forward out of her chair.

Was this still his mother? This bending, smiling thing that had sat in her wheelchair and played the diligent role of the neglectful zombie. How long had she been like this? Who was this thing he was speaking to? He was certain, now, that this wasn’t the mother that had raised him, but a new, warped thing that had found its way into his home, leeching this awful poison into the air that made him run away over and over. He didn’t have the faintest idea how to get rid of it, and he didn’t want to try. He felt the pull of the front door, begging him to get up and get out of this fucking house, but he made himself stay, digging his nails into the chair beneath him.

He could still remember his mother, when he was really young, still full of love and patience to give him, who knew what kind of presents to buy him on his birthday, and cared to know where he was going when he went out the door every morning. He missed that woman. He wondered how long this thing had replaced her, if it could explain all the distance and hurt that came after she got sick, the demand for one hundred percent of his time and attention with no room for him to grow. He wished he could honestly believe the “mother” in front of him was the mother who hadn’t cared about him in a long time, that a monster stepping into her shoes and replacing her was the answer for all his heartache, but he knew better than to attribute this thing to his lonely childhood.

He wished the mother who cared would tell him now what he was meant to do, how to escape and live the rest of his life far away from this wretched house.

Instead, he got up, picking his bag up and walking out the front door. When he made it to Edinburgh, after a long, torturous train journey he’d seen too many times before, he didn’t go looking for his new landlord, or his uncle - he got as far away from civilisation as he could, hopping on a bus as darkness was beginning to fall in the direction of Inverness, his mind fixed on the untamed highlands beyond. He walked for hours, darkness swallowing him whole, the stars above doing nothing to light his way, but God, what a beautiful sight.

This would have been his celebration, if he had made it out. He’d always loved his school trips out in nature, spending hours walking through sloped valley s littered with heather and fern, or deep into the woods not half an hour from the city he’d planted a tree in when he was only seven. Here, in silence, where he had no worries - not even for himself - was where he was meant to be. The view was beautiful, what he could see of it, at least - he’d seen pictures of the trails around here, had big plans of not going back to his apartment until he’d finished travelling from one end of the mountains to the other, pack for the length of a hike like that and lose himself of the silence of the land. He started to slip off on his second day hiking, just as the sun was beginning to rise over the crest of the hill, painting the sky a vibrant orange, full of pink clouds and birdsong.

Oh, well, Simon thought dreamily. It was a nice idea.

When he woke up wrapped in the stars that had been above him in Edinburgh, he didn’t give another look to the bag in the corner. He neatly made his bed, fluffing the pillows and pulling the duvet tight, before he stumbled downstairs, fighting the urge to get back into his bed and never wake up.

He made his mother her favourite - eggs, sunny side up, with a buttered bagel fresh out of the toaster. He got her tea to just the colour she liked before he brought it out with her meds, eating silently as he watched the droning television through the doorway of the living room.

He called the carer and their neighbour, told them the situation had changed, and he wouldn’t be needing their services any longer, that he was sorry to have taken up their time. He called the landlord and told him there had been an emergency, that he would no longer be going to Edinburgh - he hadn’t signed any papers yet, at least. Even if this man insisted on screaming at him down the phone for screwing him over, Simon was in the clear - at least, he thought. He wasn’t exactly a lawyer, but he was pretty sure he was safe as far as a lawsuit went, thank God. He couldn’t afford the cost of that right now.

His mother ate and drank. He helped her to the toilet, sat with her as she rambled on his numerous failings, the neutral look he’d practiced for so many years never leaving his face. It got late. She was tired. Why can’t you be more help, Simon? She grumbled, as he took her into his arms to get her ready for bed. You should know better than to leave me here, exhausted and in pain.

Yes, mum.

And don’t be up banging around half the night, I already don’t sleep well, you do anything but help that.

Sorry, mum.

For all her venom, she looked normal again - reverted back to the sickly, aging woman she had been, not the sharp-edged creature that sat in her wheelchair the other night . It wasn’t his mother. It was still the thing. But it was doing a much better job of looking like a sleepy old woman as he drew the blankets up around her.

Simon stopped in the door, hand hovering over the light switch.

“Goodnight - night, Mum.”

It didn’t respond, but Simon saw the corners of its mouth turn up in his peripheral.

When Simon woke in his bed once more, it was raining, the gentle pattering waking him from his sleep. He bit back tears, fists clenching around the sheets. It had not rained on October 3rd.