"Whispers of Satan" by Lacy

The Whispers of Satan

by Lacy Pittman

Like no other she amazed me. She wasn't a particularly elegant woman, and she really wasn't different from most, but there was something intriguing about her life and her personality. Older men wanted her, and they'd do whatever it took to get her. I think it was because of all of the difficult things that she's had to face. They find her a challenge. She's a challenge that they'll stop at nothing to face, a challenge they'll stop at nothing to defeat.

I didn't look much like her, I tan easily and she's got the fairest of freckled skin. Her freckles were like markings of survival games that she'd played in the past, that she alone had overcome. Her flowing blonde hair was curly and layed across her shoulders like silk. She wasn't a typical supermodel-type, ultra-thin woman with her ribs pressing against her skin, constantly threatening to pop out for a cordial hello. She was a naturally curvy woman, almost making her more appealing to men because she was more real. Her cheeks were rounded and had a natural blush. I have light brown skin and brown hair. The only common trait that we share are our eyes. They're crystalline blue like the ocean. Whenever she invites a new suitor home, their endless gaze into her sea of misty blue eyes is evident even from across the room. You could get lost in her eyes, it seemed like they would absolutely radiate through the air and see deep into your soul. Looking at the blue you could never lie. With the amazing power that she posessed, you were automatically drawn to her.

My father left when I was very young. My beautiful mother had to raise me on her very own. Without so much as a dollar to her name, and her childhood inevitably stolen from her, she scooped me into her arms and did a confident walk through life. To her, it wasn't as though we had nothing, we had eachother, and to her, that was everything. She was unbeatable, and I felt that was the one thing that I had inherited from her. My whole life, no matter what I've dealt with, I've been able to press on, just as she did. I admire her endlessly for that gift.

* * *

I remember how hot it was that day. Sweat trickled down my forehead like a creeping tortoise, awaiting it's inevitable fall to the ground below. My skin felt sticky and my clothes felt uncomfortable soggy, along with the added chafing that I received on my inner thighs from the stickiness of my wet jeans. My flip flops pattered against the hot asphalt as I trudged home in the heat. I needed desperately to get some cool water into my body, I felt like I'd lost a gallon in sweat. Turning the corner onto our block, I saw our home at the end, just waiting to be ran to. My mother wasn't home yet and for this I was thankful, I didn't want her to see me this way, dirty and sweating. I didn't want her to be ashamed. Anytime I was near her I wanted her to be proud of me. I wanted her to always be amazed of me, the way I was with her.

I hopped into the shower with the anticipation of our Wednesday night outing. We always went out together for a scoop of rocky road, and we'd catch whatever hip horror flick that was out at the Roxy Horror Theatre after we slowly licked down our ice cream. My mom was like my best friend. No matter what fights we'd get into, or what shameful mistake I'd ever made, she was my blood. She took care of every aspect of my life and was the one constant person that I'd ever had. I never wanted to meet my dad. I knew that I'd be disappointed because my mother had given me everything I'd ever need. He'd never amount to that.

I was ready and anxiously awaiting my mom's arrival home from her unsuiting 7-5 job at her store Tres Chic. Her store never got the hype she expected it to when she opened it. It was a discount store that sold knock-offs of high fashion french clothing and perfume. My mother always smelled of the glorious Tres Chic Brand Parfumé from her store. It was her favorite because the velvety sensation that it brought to your nose would linger in the air for a long time, giving her a fragrance that you could smell from a mile away. The perfume was so rare, you could almost be known for it's unfamiliar scent. I always knew when my mother was in the room, all because of her piercing blue eyes and her fragrance that you could get lost in.

I continued to distractedly watch Oprah as I quietly peeked out the window awaiting the familiar sound of her Cherokee pulling up in the driveway. We never lived comfortably because her store never quite rose out of it's debts, but we always seemed to get by. Tonight the movie Deathtrap II was playing at the Roxy and we'd both been waiting to see it, so I knew she'd scramble home as I did.

When she arrived we had a night that would make history in my memories. We laughed and joked and even had some serious adult-like conversations of our very own financial problems, and what she proposed to do about them. I knew that it was definitely a night that we'd grown closer than one could possible be with their own mother, and I savored every second. I had a piece of her life now that no one could ever take away, and I knew that every time I'd close my eyes I'd feel the way I felt this very moment. I was happier than I'd ever been, and I was probably happier than most people could be, looking at my little family's past.

A few days passed before I saw her again. She slowly began to disintigrate into a sort of stress knot. She was working double overtimes and trying to make up for the year-end debt that we were in. I felt a huge amount of sympathy as I'd hear her broken down Cherokee roar into the driveway around 3 a.m. She was trying to keep the store running smoother than ever, but all the while she was running herself ragged. She would kick off her shoes as she climbed into the door, shivering from the crisp night air, and the combination of stress, and nausea. She was overworked, and who could blame her for being fed up?

I traipsed quietly up the stairs as I waited to see if she was ok. She and I had a bit of a argument as her snake-like words bored into my soul. She complained that I was the problem. "Always needing new something, whether it be clothes, shoes, I can't freaking keep up anymore Kodi!"

At that moment I wondered why God made children grow. Why couldn't I be a soliditary size so that my beautiful mother wouldn't have to deal with all of this pain. I was the thorn in her side. I was the reason that she could never bring her head up above the salty ocean water that held her under. She was a swimmer with ankle weights on. I was the daughter with no physical resemblance that had always held her back. I was her ankle weights.

She looked at me unapologetically, turned, and stalked off to her room with an air of confidence. It seemed to be a way to cover up what she really felt, shame.

I came home from school the next day surprised to see her Cherokee in the driveway. I didn't know why she was home so early, but the feeling that something was wrong tickled in my heart like a spikey feather. I dropped my bookbag in the yard and ran into the house. I can't explain why I ran, or why I felt like I was about to see the most awful thing that my eyes would ever behold.

I galloped into the living room, but saw nothing that would give me any hint as to where she was. Every room was empty, but her Jeep sat in the driveway, unnoticed, and rusted. The only room I hadn't checked was the bathroom.

I knocked on the door and held my breath as I awaited a response. "Mom?" I called to the back of the door, feeling the sweat begin to bead around my forehead. "MOM! Are you in there?"

I pressed open the door, she never left it unlocked when she took a bath. I walked in to find the shower curtains pulled open, and rose petals scattered all over a tub of water. Everything got hazy as I gazed into the water. I swallowed hard and clutched my heart. I felt like I could rip it out. My knees buckles under the weight of my body, and I passed out.

Waking up on the cold floor, I tried to get up, but my legs felt like Jell-O. I layed there and burst into a nervous breakdown. I grabbed my knees and layed on the hard tile in the fetal position. She was the strong one. She was the survivor. My world had hit rock bottom. I didn't let a single tear escape from either eye, because the minute I cried, I knew the horrible scene would be the truth. My beautiful and strong mother had given in to the whispers of Satan.

I imagined the scene as my crying mother would have pulled up into the driveway, mouth agape. She would have came in with a bag of rose petals and scattered them over the warm water in the tub. She would have climbed in and wrote the note to me, it was clearly still dripping wet with rose scented bath water. She'd lay there, contemplating my future before she pushed her own head under the water and let it rush into her lungs. I imagined her fighting a little, but bravely letting it end peacefully, no blood, no gore. Just my beautiful mother under a sea of rose petals. She wanted the last time that I'd see her to be nothing but beautiful, peaceful.

At the end of the movie that played in my head, I tilted my neck back and screamed an ear piercing, shrill scream into the heavens. My best friend, my only kin, my blood, was dead.

The next few weeks whirred past me in hazy circles around my uncomprehending head. I had always felt I was the burden, it burned inside me like a brand on the back of a cow. I didn't realize how much of a burden I was becoming. I had demanded her every free moment, and I had wanted to be with her, to see her, to understand the things she had seen, to smell her familiar scent and know that everything would be alright.

That night three weeks later, as I lay in my first new bed in the New Haven Child Facility, I felt need tugging at my insides. I wanted to hug her more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life. I wished that I was the one in the bathtub, but I knew that I'd never be as brave as she was to just abruptly step away from it all. I wanted to hit her, to yell at her, and to embrace her all at the same time. I needed her. She was almost my other half. I pulled at my hair and stifled a scream as I burst out into tears of anger and uncomprehension. I cried out to the heavens and to hell where my mother inevitably inhabited. I cried to God, I cried to Satan, I cried to my mother "Why? You left me here you coward! You worked your whole life to protect and save me, and then you decide to just leave me? I can't believe that we are related. You're scum! I didn't want to f***ing find you! Did you think that what you did was elegant, with your rose petals and soft music? You act like this is a game! It's my f***ing life too!"

I lay in my bed soaked with tears, fists balled, and eyes squinted with pain. I felt like a knife was pressed in my back, right in an unconvenient spot where I couldn't pull it out on my own. I had no one now to pull it out. I was left there in my room as my thoughts bounced off of the gray cement walls, I was left there to feel all of my hurt, and shame. She thought that she had it so rough, she'd never know grief like I knew it. I'd suffered true losses that I'd never forgive her for.

"Kodi Lynn Foster eh? The name's Jaquelin W. Flaherty. I'm your first case worker. Get used to us being around, orphans have new ones all of the time."

The word orphan hung in the air like a bad taste hung in your mouth.