He could never understand what she wanted from him. Her cold stare sending shivers down his bony back; for God sakes, she was his mother, yet she felt like a stranger. He didn’t understand all those years why her eyes were different, why his smile didn’t crook like hers. He didn’t know why he was so different. His short memory was too clouded to know. The face in his dreams, the whispers inside of his head. He believed he was going insane. He never wanted to leave her side afraid to be alone. Yet she pushed him aside.
– Clean you little freak! – She scowled at him when he didn’t do as told. On his hands and knees with an old broken brush, he would scrub the rotting wood floors that reeked of mouse piss and dirt. Piles of dust surround him every day. At night, he would cry himself to sleep, holding onto the old mattress as he wished for his mother to be happy.
That morning was different than any other. He didn’t hear his mother screaming at him for not cleaning up, he didn’t have to fear being pulled out by his hair, he only found a note “I’m not your mother” it read.