Trembling With Fear 9-22-24

HBD, by Dave Musson

Somehow, that time of year has come around again – Mother’s birthday.

I’ve lost track of how old she is now, of how many gifts I’ve had to bring her. To be honest, it doesn’t bear thinking about too much; knowing the real number would only send me crazy and, even then, I’d still need to bring Mother a present. There is to be no forgetting Mother’s birthday. 

That had been Father’s mistake.

This year’s present is on the passenger seat next to me in my old but clean car; a bunch of flowers – from a florist of course, never a petrol station forecourt…that would never do – along with garden centre vouchers tucked inside the card, which was an Art Deco print I found on one of those fancy online card shops that seem to follow you around social media for weeks on end. Mother’s hip has been starting to feel better of late and she is hoping for a productive Spring. Those vouchers will help kick things off nicely. 

They aren’t the only presents for Mother though. They are just appetisers. Oh, the real present is bound and gagged in the boot of the car; a 17-year-old student this year – very bright, very attractive, and, right now, very, very scared. I can just about hear her screaming from the boot of my car in between the songs on my New Wave of American Heavy Metal playlist. She must be yelling really loudly – I tied that gag pretty tight and I’ve got the music cranked.

It will be over for her soon enough, but not before a bit of suffering. 

Well, more than a bit.

Anyway, the point is that it always pays to have a cover present too, hence the card and flowers. I learned that three years ago. That had been too close. But no-one bats an eyelid at a diligent son taking his dear old mum some flowers for her birthday, right?

I signal, and turn into the road where I’d grown up. It looks the same as it ever has done – boring. It is totally bland, completely unremarkable in every way. All the houses look just as dull as each other, all hiding the very interesting stuff that goes on behind at least some of their doors. Seeing the street always brings back bad memories of this time of year – Mother is difficult to find presents for, and extremely unforgiving if you got it wrong.

Still, I think I’ve done well this year – and if she likes this one as much as I think she will, it’ll help with my Christmas shopping. 

This year’s present has a younger brother, you see. I have a feeling Mother would be a big fan – and the brother would complement the Christmas jumper I’ve already got Mother quite perfectly.

I hear the crunch of gravel under my tires as I pull up to the house, just as Mother opens the front door, smiling wide enough to show too many teeth. I hate that smile. It is wrong…unnerving…reptilian. 

I kill the engine, open the door, climb out of my car and walk on trembling legs to the house. I force myself to crouch down and kiss Mother’s scaly cheek. Her breath smells like it always does – of rot and decay, with a hint of chocolate.

She runs her fingers – tipped with sharp, yellow nails – down my cheek in what I imagine she thinks is a gentle caress but to me feels more like a minor assault. Those thick claws slowly carve a shallow line down my face. It stings but I resist the urge to wince and instead push out a smile. She smiles back, and a globule of saliva runs over her bottom lip and trickles slowly down towards her chin. She makes no move to wipe it off – her gaze is locked on my car and nothing else is likely to register.

“Happy birthday Mother,” I say, “I’ll bring your presents in now.”