Frank Zafiro - Beneath a Weeping Sky

The door to his room flung open. His mother stood in the doorway, glaring at him.

Jeffrey scrambled to his feet, turning his back to her. “Jesus, Mother! Don’t you knock?”

“I don’t have to knock in my own house, you dirty little boy!” She cackled at him. “I knew it. I knew you were in here being nasty.”

“I wasn’t doing anything.” He looked over his shoulder at her as he zipped his pants and snapped the button. “I was just going to change my school clothes, that’s all.”

She stepped into the room, shaking her head. “Liar,” she whispered.

“It’s the truth. I-”

“No,” she whispered. “It’s a lie .”

There was something strange in her voice that made him stop. Her words were slurred more heavily than was usual for this early in the afternoon, but he knew she sometimes started early. The difference in her voice went beyond that, however. It was oddly soft and gentle, something he could remember from years ago and only intermittently at that.

“Sit down,” she said, motioning to the bed.

Hesitantly, he sat on the edge of his mattress. She lowered herself clumsily, sitting beside him. The essence of her sweat and the alcohol permeated the small bedroom. Her eyes were red and watery, their customary hardness filled with an empty sorrow that wasn’t familiar to him.

“Do you think I don’t know what you do in here at night?” she asked him.

“I don’t do anything. I only-”

She raised her hand. He flinched involuntarily, expecting her to pinch beneath his chin. Instead, she rested her index finger on his lips, shushing him. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “Every boy does it. Every single little boy ends up becoming a nasty young man and then a piece of shit just like your father.”

His thoughts raced. He had wondered if other boys did it, but based on the conversations he overheard, everyone denied it. He thought something was wrong with him, not just for doing it but for how often.

“You can’t help it,” she said in the same soft voice. “You’re just like him.”

She let her finger fall away from his lips.

“You even look like him. Hell, you could be brothers, you look so much alike.”

He didn’t know whether to be happy or not about that. Was it a good thing or a bad thing to look like your father?

His mother straightened the battered robe that covered her legs. Then she cast him a sidelong glance. “What do you think about when you do it, Jeffie?”

His heart raced. If she knew he touched himself, was it possible that she knew what he fantasized about? Could she know how he wanted to lay the whammo on the girls at school? Did she have some sort of motherly knowledge about these things? He tried to tell himself this wasn’t possible, but then why was she asking him this?

“Do you think about the little pretties at your school?” she continued. “Those girls with their fluffy hair and their tight jeans?”

Jeffrey swallowed. He didn’t know how to answer, but she was staring at him, so he gave her a small nod.

“Of course you do,” she said, her voice silky smooth. “What boy wouldn’t?” She leaned closer. “But tell me something else, Jeffie. Have you ever done more than just think about any of them?”

His heart pounded frantically.

She knew.

She knew.

She knew, she knew, sheknewsheknew sheknew!

He moved his head left and right with a frenzied shake.

She raised her eyebrow. “No? Never slipped off into a quiet place with one of those large breasted sluts?”

“No,” he whispered, though he’d imagined it many times. Did she know that, too?

She smiled as if she knew everything. “Is my little boy still a virgin, then?”

He hesitated, but the admission seemed better than the alternative, so he nodded again.

“I figured as much,” she whispered. She took a deep breath and let it out. The powerful odor of vodka washed past him. She glanced down at the thin wedding band on her finger. “You know what today is?” she asked him.

“Last day of school?”

She gave a small laugh. “I suppose so. But do you know what else it is? I’ll give you a hint. It’s a big day.”

He thought about it for a few seconds, but eventually shook his head. “I…I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she said, twisting the ring. “No one in this family seems to remember.”

He waited, expecting that she would tell him what day it was and why no one seemed to remember. Instead, she turned suddenly and was upon him. The force of her motion pushed him backward onto bed. Her legs straddled him. Her face pressed against his, her mouth searching for his. He parted his lips, letting out a surprised sound. Her kisses smothered his small cry. Her tongue snaked out and raked across his teeth.

No!

His stomach clenched. A hotness brewed there that filled with all the hate and love and desire and pain and confusion that he had ever felt. The tumultuous emotions broiled and twisted while her hands tore at his clothing. He lay frozen on his back. He could taste the harshness of her vodka now in the back of his own throat.

His legs trembled. He realized that his erection was straining at his zipper.

Her mouth broke away from his. He gasped for air. Her lips found his earlobe, drawing it into her mouth while her hot breath plumed into his ear.

He raised his arms up in the air, his palms open, his fingers twitching.

What do I do? How do I stop this?

She tore his jeans from his legs, sending them flying across the room. The denim struck the far wall and dropped to the floor like a dead body.

He pushed at her chest while trying to slide backwards, away from her. Her robe fell open. He stared at her hanging breasts, the large red nipples erect. She looked down at him with a mixed expression he’d never seen on her face before, but he recognized them both. Her eyes were filled with a venomous combination of lust and pure hatred.

“No,” he gasped at her.

She grasped him by the wrists and pulled his open palms until they were against her chest. The warm flesh of her breasts filled his palms. He pulled weakly against her, shaking his head. His stomach clenched and roiled. She pressed his hands hard against her chest.

He felt light-headed.

“Mother, please-”

She shushed him, rocking her hips against his hardness. “Call me Cora.”

“Mother-”

“Cora!” she snapped, grinding herself downward onto him. His hardness slipped inside her. Overpowering warm wetness radiated outward from down there. “Say it!”

He surrendered. “Cora, please.”

She kept moving. “Please what?” she purred down at him.

All his strength faded from him. The absolute wrongness of the world at that moment came crushing downward upon his chest. He struggled to breath.

How could this be happening?

“That’s right,” she said. “Shut up and enjoy it.”

That feeling, that wonderful feeling that he’d always associated with his fantasies coming true, swept over him. He arched his back and grunted in surprise, in horror, in ecstasy. The force of the explosion rocked through his legs and up to his chest. His grunt became a primal cry.

As soon as the fluttering convulsions faded, his churning stomach overtook him. He rolled to the left and heaved. The warm vomit spewed out onto his bed and the wall. His stomach clenched again, pulling his legs in toward his center. He was dimly aware of her slipping off of him, but his head was spinning. He clutched at his stomach and retched a third time.

Vaguely, as if it were happening to someone else a hundred million miles away, he felt her hands raining down on him, pounding with the fury of a harpy. The blows didn’t bring any pain with them, nor did the familiar words she hurled at him. She’d called him all of these things before. She’d hit him before. But she’d never-