MY MOTHER DIED BEFORE I COULD MURDER HER

SEYMOUR ENGLANDER

My Mother Died

Before I Could Murder Her

A Novel

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the

product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales are not

intended to refer to specific places or persons and are coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 Seymour Englander

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 0-6154-4542-X

ISBN-13: 9780615445427

AMAZON.COM

Oh dear……

     I stood in the doorway to my mother’s darkened hospital

room and could make out in the light from the corridor that she

was sleeping. Quickly I moved into the room and up to her

bedside.

     “Mom.” No response. Again, “Mom.” She was fast asleep. For

a long moment I watched her lips pursed like those of a hungry

goldfish sucking as it hunted for food in the limited supply of water

in the goldfish bowl. I leant forward and in the quiet, heard the

constant, gentle “phooo…phooo…phooo…” as her regular breathing

let me know that she was still alive.

     I placed my hand on her arm. No reaction. Gently I squeezed

her hand. Nothing. I looked around the room. I was alone. I took a

deep breath. It was now or never. I moved one of her pillows up

and across her face, covering her mouth. I stood still, listening,

watching for any reaction as I started to apply gentle downward

pressure. Then I pressed a little harder. Her hand reached onto the

pillow as if trying to grab at some invisible force pressing down,

and then with a feeble twitch, fell back.

     I kept up the downward pressure, causing the pillow to cut

off her air supply and stop her breathing. All of a sudden everything

was still, and silent. I rested my head on the pillow trying to hear if

she was still moving or alive. She wasn’t. I had killed her. I started

to cry.

     “Excuse me. Are you okay?” I felt a hand gently rock my

shoulder. I opened my eyes. The air stewardess looked at me as if I

was really stressed. And I was. I was hyperventilating. Tears

streamed down my face as I cried into the small passenger pillow I

held up to the side of my head.

I nodded. “I’m fine, thank you.”

     This wasn’t the first time I dreamed that I had murdered my