I TRIED to escape the memories that haunted me, but my fight was a losing one. It was inevitable that the truth would be revealed, and I would have to face the consequences of my actions. I struggled daily to upkeep the guiltless composure I had adopted, but the mere mention of his name would send chills up my spine. Every time someone looked at me, I swore to myself that they knew the wicked deed I had done. I felt as though it was written on my forehead. I trembled every time someone would walk past me.

I feared the outdoors, but secluding myself in my room made me almost claustrophobic. I felt as though the walls were closing in and sucking the air out of me. I wrestled with my thoughts every time I attempted to sleep, but staying awake forced me to see images in front of me; images I wanted desperately to forget.

For days I went without eating, but no matter how much liquid I drank, I was always thirsty. Sitting on the floor made me always feel pinned to it, but my legs were often too weak to stand. My guilty conscience was haunting me; the secret was eating me alive. I needed freedom from my thoughts, for it was the only way to save my sanity. After thirteen years, I had to reveal to my mother what I had done.

My mother and I didn’t have the best of relationships; I almost always defied every instruction she had given me. I was quite rebellious in my teenage years. We despised each other for the same reason, the one casting blame on the other.

My father woke up one day, went to work and never came back home. After about a week of frantically fearing the worst, he called one day to tell my mother that she must stop looking for him because he was never coming back, and that he was finally happy with the woman he truly loves.

My mother said it was my fault for always causing arguments in the house, and I thought it her fault because she wasn’t that good a wife; always nagging and complaining about my father. I was convinced that if it wasn’t for her jealousy and envy towards everything my father did, he wouldn’t have left me. It was always my aim to have her regret it.

The feeling was mutual. My mother never gave me a chance at anything. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere with friends. From school to home; home to school. Punishing herself by having me stuck in the house was her way of punishing me.  And by always rebelling against her every wish was my way of punishing her for punishing me. There was no love lost between my mother and I; only disgust and hate grew between us.

Then my mother found happiness in a man she met while coming home one afternoon from work. Her car had broken down on the highway and he was the only one that stopped to render assistance. She brought him home for dinner that night. She said it was the least she could have done for him after ruining his suit with car oil for someone he had not known.

It was the first civil conversation we had in years; she begged me to be on my best behavior, and in return, I would be allowed to go out with my friends. So it was a deal. But that chance meeting between my mother and the ‘corporate mechanic’, as I thought of him, was just the beginning of what blossomed into marriage and the bearing of a little brother for me.

Ironically, even though the affection my mother had towards me wasn’t one that earned reward, I was jealous that she no longer paid interest in my temper tantrums. Frankly, she cared less of what I did or didn’t do. She even persuaded the ‘corporate mechanic’ not to pay any mind to my spoiled attitude as that was how her first marriage ended.

With his devotion and love towards my mother, he did just that. Apart from casual greetings, the ‘corporate mechanic’ never said much to me. Here he was, living in my father’s house, and treating me as if I was begging shelter at his doorsteps. I hated him; and I hated my mother.

But my mother no longer cared about my malice towards her; neither did the ‘corporate mechanic’ notice it. The centre of both their focus was my little brother, Aaron. He was born just one year after my mother brought her new love home. I was jealous of Aaron, and I envied the attention he got from my mother. She was always playing with him, giving him kisses, reading him stories or watching movies with him.

Even though my childhood memories were faint, I had no recollection of her ever even kissing a scrape I may have gotten from playing outdoors. Yet, here she was, drowning Aaron with all her love and affection; love and affection that I’d never received nor was ever offered.

I wasn’t part of the family my mother formed with the ‘corporate mechanic’; I felt as though I was just a piece of furniture in the house gathering dust. I wanted my mother’s love; I needed her affection. But the bitter realisation that I would never have it came one day when my mother, Aaron, and I got into a car accident.

The car turned turtle and burst into flames. Even though I was in the passenger seat, my mother freed herself, and then went to the back of the car to free Aaron from his car seat. She ran for safety from the burning car, never once looking back at me; never once attempting to save me. I screamed for her with tears in my eyes, but she just sat in the grass corner on the other side of the road cradling Aaron. I was forgotten and left to die.

I thought I had died until I woke up in the hospital three days after. My burnt body and face were covered in bandages, and a nurse softly whispered me to me: “It was a miracle that you survived. Get some rest.” My eyes hungrily searched around the room for my mother or even the ‘corporate mechanic’, but they weren’t there. The sadness I felt at being abandoned consumed me. Even to the day of my discharge, my mother still hadn’t come to see me; she sent a driver to bring me home. A maid was hired to attend to my needs. Not once did my mother hold me like the day she held Aaron when she rescued him from the burning car.

I blamed Aaron and the ‘corporate mechanic’ for coming into our lives and stealing my mother away from me. I never really had her, but at least she was still there. But now, even with burnt body, sustained from the flames of a car she was driving, she couldn’t care less about me. Only Aaron and the ‘corporate mechanic’ she cared for.

My only thought was that Aaron had to go. After four months, I was able to move around on my own. But it was as if I’d disappointed the family by my recovery. Nothing changed in my home: I was still ignored and Aaron favoured.

While my mother was in the kitchen one day, I sneaked into Aaron’s room. I watched as he laid asleep with a glow of peace and tranquility. With trembling hands and a tear-soaked face, I smothered Aaron to death with his own pillow. I placed one of his stuffed animals in his mouth and made his hands to hold it, then went back to my room. I was ashamed of what jealously and envy had forced me to do, but my mother’s attention would now be mine. Then maybe as timed passed, she would love me like she loved Aaron… or at least try to.

But such was not to happen, as I had hoped. My mother never got over her grief and she never loved me like she did Aaron. She didn’t even try to. Even in death, Aaron still captivated all her attention. Her unwillingness to move on with her life caused her and the ‘corporate mechanic’ to divorce. He alone was just not good enough for her, and all they did was argue about Aaron. I wished she would have blamed me and then maybe I would gain some form of attention from her; but all her affections died along with Aaron.

It saddened me to watch the hope fade away from her every day, and, holding her hands one morning while she sat aimlessly at the table, her breakfast untouched, I realised that deep down inside of me, I loved
my mother.

Ironically, it was this new-found love that I had for her that stilled my tongue. She thought it was her negligence that caused Aaron’s death, and that was the main reason for her grief. I could take that guilt away by telling her the truth, but that would mean revealing to her that I was a murderer. So I kept quiet, and, as the days passed, my mother slowly began noticing me again.

I welcomed her greetings, however short they were, with much anticipation and joy. She never came to love or care for me as she did Aaron, but at least I was no longer invisible in her presence.

But I couldn’t bear the burden anymore. Thirteen years after, I was going completely mad with guilt. Every time my mother said his name, or I found her staring at a picture of him, the guilt pierced my heart. I was finally close with my mother; we shared a bond now, not arguments; but the source of my gain nibbled away at my conscience. The weight of my burden had succeeded in crushing my joy. I had to reveal to my mother what I had done; I had to admit that her years of grief and the failure of a second marriage were both at my hands.

I realised that my confession would be like killing a second child for her, but if any good came of relieving her of the guilt she felt for Aaron’s death, then it was worth it. I had built this new relationship on deceit and murder, and the time had come for me to finally grow up. I had to reveal to her that I had murdered ‘her love’ so that she could welcome mine. A reason I am sure will not suffice, but a deed that must be done.

“Mother, please forgive me for the wicked deed I did out of love, but I…”