Rose Jones: Death of the Good

I Killed My Mother

August, 1969

I was the oldest. I had two younger siblings. Ruby was the middle child, and Joe was the youngest.

Ruby had flaming red hair, it got duller as she got older. It was curly and long. She was way taller than me. Standing at six feet. And yet she was the feminine one.

Joe was a lazy fuck. Nothing else too him. I probably don't even need to describe him. I'll let you come up with your own vision of the lazy slob that is my brother.

My mother was just shorter than six feet tall. She had short blonde hair like mine, and bright blue eyes that could draw you in and state into your soul. A staring contest with her was difficult. The longer you made eye contact, the more you felt like she knew your darkest secrets.

My father was quite different. He had flaming hair like my sister, a scratchiness on his face that he called a beard, and strange eyes. They were strange to me because I couldn't quite describe them with actual words of color. I can only describe them as beautiful. If I were to try to use color words, I'd say they were a.. greenish.. bluish.. grey.. or bluish.. greyish green.. or even a greyish greenish blue. But they were beautiful. And kind. He was young when he disappeared, but he had these wrinkles at the edges of his eyes. People call them crow feet; but I called them smile lines. Because that's what they were; smile lines!

Ruby was at school, Joe was.. who even knows where Joe was? He was somewhere. That's all I know. My mother was in the kitchen. I was walking in the door, having just got home from work.

As I got closer to the kitchen, I heard her talking to someone. I didn't hear another voice, so I gathered that she was on the phone with someone. I didn't understand what she was saying though. It sounded like another language.

"Они опоздали? Вы проверяли, сделали ли они какие-либо остановки? Безбилетных пассажиров? отсутствует товар? Послушай. Я не буду нести ответственность за вашу глупость! Если в любом случае отгрузка пошла не так, я гарантирую, что ВЫ несут ответственность! И я обязательно сделаю пулю в голову!"

What the hell? Is that Russian?

A floorboard creaked loudly under my foot.

She stopped talking. My mother came out into the hall and stared me down, a revolver pointed at me.

I acted calm because.. well.. what if she thought I was a robber?

"Hey ma.. what's with the gun?"

"How much of that did you hear?"

"Erm... None of it?"

"Kitchen. Now. Sit down,"

I heard my heart pounding in my ears like it was trying to escape.

Sitting at the table, she sat across from me and kept the gun trained on me.

"How much did you hear?"

"Well I don't know what I heard. I don't speak whatever that was,"

SLAP

"Agh! What the hell was that for? Who slaps people with a gun?"

"Don't get sassy. It was russian-'

"You speak Russian?"

SLAP

"OW!"

"Don't interrupt me. You have two options. You can go tell people what you heard; or you can learn more. Join the organization,"

"What organization?"

"So you choose to join?"

"Well I want to know what I'm getting into first. You taught us to do that,"

She Tried slapping me again but I snatched the gun and boy.. was she not happy..

"Knock it off. Now, tell me what I'm getting into"

"An organization. They control the county. Not the government. They bring in things the government has banned because they don't think people can handle it."

"So drugs?"

"Not just-"

"Yeah, no thanks. Nursings hard enough without egging on a drug epidemic. You know how many cases of heroin abuse we get daily?"

I shook my head in disgust. I got up to leave, and as I went out the door, something solid hit me in the back of the head. Tumbling down the steps, I saw my mom, for just a second, wielding a one inch thick cutting board.

The gun fired; I heard my mom howl in pain.

My nose hurt as I got up off the cement. When I looked at my Mom, she was leaning against the door, her hands pressed to her stomach. Blood seeped from between hwr fingers and her white apron turned a sickening red. I felt bile rising in my throat, and the blood drain from my face.

Doubled over, vomiting in the grass, all I could think was: Oh God, oh God. I'm going to Hell. Oh GOD!

I normally had a high tolerance for gore, but seeing blood drip slowly from my mother's mouth, to her chin, wasn't something I could handle.