Fiona’s Mother

Written: 2003   |   Setting: Family home   |   950 words   |   5 minute read

1

She pressed her face to the glass and watched the world go by. Families laughed, friends giggled, and lovers strolled along the sidewalk. She yearned to feel such normality, a life with stability and routine.

A life where she was absolutely normal.

She knew she could never really be that person. She could never be that warm individual, safe in the blankets of calm days and tranquil nights.

“Fiona!” The voice squawked from upstairs. “Bring me a drink.”

As always, Fiona sighed. As always, she would bring her drinks until she was satiated and eventually passed out. Fiona rambled through the parlor, which was filled with furniture from a time even before Mother. The antiques had been passed down in the family from generation to generation.

She dreamed of having her own family to pass the tradition on to, but with Mother, that would be impossible. There would be no wedding bells, no laughing children, no romance, and no dates. Mother always declared it wasn’t decent for a girl to be out with a boy without a chaperone. It just wasn’t done.

Although the millennium had passed, Mother was still a century behind in thought.

She grudgingly prepared the drink, a Bloody Mary with ice. That was the never-ending cycle of her life.

Get up, tend to Mother, and fix a drink.

Fix lunch, tend to Mother, and fix a drink.

Endure obscenities and foul degradations, a slap or two, fix a drink.

The end of the day was all that belonged to her.

When Mother finally passed out.

She was tired of life and tired of living. Her existence revolved around her role as nursemaid to an aging beauty queen. A former pageant winner who had aged in every way and without grace or dignity. One who hid from the wrinkles and the years in a bottle and never thought to look through the eyes of her only child.

A bitter woman who hatefully spat out threats and demands.

The endless circle had gone on since childhood. She vividly recalled the taunts and terrors of school days. Her classmates knew about Mother. They knew Fiona was helping a drunk, nursing a lush. Their cruel jokes and vicious remarks scarred her youth.

Mother didn’t help. She only criticized her when she told.

“Why did you take that?”

As if Fiona were the one to blame, and not her classmates.

“Mother, it was my entire class. How could I . . .”

“I don’t give a damn how. You just better do it. If I hear you don’t stand up for me, I’ll disown you and kick your sorry ass out on the street.”

“Yes, Mother.”

It was hopeless. No one was on her side or would ever be on her side. No one cared about the poor girl with the funny clothes. They didn’t ask about her or her troubles.

Instead of attending college or having a career, she tended to Mother. Instead of a happy childhood, she had served Mother. She had to bathe Mother, had to cook and clean for Mother.

She sat the glass down, her hands trembling with anger. She could destroy something when that fury came.

But what could she do?

She would end up cleaning up any mess she made.

What was the point?

“Fiona, you lazy bitch. Bring that to me now!”

The yell erupted through the house, shattering the welcomed silence. Fiona turned, looking upstairs.

Yes, she would bring it to her.

She would take Mother exactly what Mother deserved.

Fiona marched to the kitchen, pulling the chef’s knife from the top drawer. The Art Deco kitchen had to be immaculately kept, a place for everything, and everything in its place.

She approached the stairs and dwelled upon revenge.

Wrath.

She grinned.

How beautiful and ethereal, opening the eyes of violence. How sweet vengeance would be.

How Mother would pay.

She crested the final step and continued toward Mother’s room. The knife was withdrawn, blade pointed outward.

What power she held in her hand.

What lethal and destructive power.

For once, she was in control.

Not Mother.

She would decide what happened.

Not Mother.

She had the upper hand and would show Mother who should be grateful.

She entered the room. Mother sat on her pink satin sheets. She looked up from her magazine and instantly grew angry. Fiona counted on this reaction to finish her plan. She hid the blade behind her back.

Her mother threw the magazine down beside her.

“Now, where the hell is my drink?”

“I didn’t bring it, Mother.”

“Then what do you think you’re doing in my room?”

“I wanted to . . . hug you, Mother.”

Fiona neared the bed.

Mother protested.

“Get the hell down there and get me my drink. Why should I hug such an ungrateful brat? You’re a piece of dirt beneath my feet. Look at you. You can’t even win a blue ribbon at a pageant. I had those in infancy. You are my biggest disappointment, my girl. Why’d you want to turn out this way?”

Fiona silently stood beside Mother.

It was time.

She held her breath and brought the knife down.

Again and again, she stabbed and gashed. Mother didn’t have time to react. Fiona laughed with insanity and glee, thinking of the horrors of her life.

It was over.

Truly over.

Nothing would bring Mother back from the dead. She stabbed with desperation and urgency, with the dreams of having her own future.

The shadow of Mother was gone, relinquished to the night.

She smiled.

It was going to be a good day.

Everyone was accustomed to her doing everything while Mother hid upstairs. Mother’s insatiable vanity had provided that tiny amount of solace. No one would be looking for her. She could bury Mother in the backyard at night, and no one would care.

She stabbed harder and harder, knowing it was over.

It was all over.

2

“Fiona,” the voice cried from upstairs. “My drink, now!”

Fiona looked down at the block of ice. She had chipped enough, just the way Mother liked it.

She had no life of her own, except the life she created.

In that life, she was free of Mother.

She knew she would be one day.

Who was to say when or how?

It would happen, and soon.

She felt the time draw near as she started up the steps.

Mother was calling.