Imre - MOTHER (E6)

Happy Mother's Day ya'll

When he arrived home, the ruckus could be heard from the outside. He found his mother wandering the halls, tipping things over as she went. Imre went to her, caressing her hair and whispering words his mouth was unused to. 

He had stopped being surprised at how lightweight she was when he carried her up to her room. Her clothes hung off her as if she were made of paper-mache. The nurse helped him tuck her into bed. 

“What happened?” he asks. 

The nurse, Rosie, replies, “I don’t know Sir. I went to the bathroom for a few minutes. I thought she was asleep.”

Imre pressed his teeth together to prevent from scowling. He reminded himself that Rosie had been a good nurse to his mother for the past 6 years. She had put up with much and she had been paid handsomely for it. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “that’s quite alright. She hadn’t acted out in the past few weeks. It’s expected she would sooner or later.”

Rosie let out an internal sigh. Imre knew he frightened her in a way. Ever since she first came to this house. Some people seemed to see things about him he didn’t want them to. It irritated him — but also gave him a twinge of pleasure. 

“I’ll sit here with her for a bit, if that’s alright with you,” he says, while already dragging the chair over to the side of her bed. 

“Of course, Sir. Will Misses be dining with you tonight or in her room?” she asks. 

“We will both dine in this room,” he says with an edge to his words that leave no room for discussion. 

She bows and scurries out of the room. Imre grabs his mother’s thin, cold hand.

“How are you, mamá?” he asks. 

Her pale blue eyes seem to look right through him. The only sign of life is her slow blinking. She sleeps more than he likes. Perhaps, her dreams give her relief? Could it be that in that muddled world, her mind is finally free?

“Where did we last leave off our conversation?” he asks her. 

He feels her hand move a fraction. He thinks it might be the way she communicates with him. He believes in science as much as he believes in superstition. He was told that she would never be the way she was. His sweet beautiful mother, how safe he felt in her gentle arms. How she could protect him from the dark. 

Sure, that could be true in the human world full of its rationality and defeat. But in that other secret world, he knew he could find her again. Grasp her hand and return her to the cold light of morning. 

“Oh, yes. I remember. We were talking about my new friend,” he says. He rubs her hands in his, “they are coming along nicely.”

He could practically hear what she would say to that. You can’t talk about people like they’re tools, honey.

“I do mean it as a compliment. I find most people are rather useless, they have little function and my faith in Darwin’s theory is shaken when I see the kind of people allowed to breathe the same air I do,” he responds. 

Did you think like that about me?

“Never.”

What about them?

He smiles, “no. But in a town like this, there are many shining stars. They didn’t shine as bright as others I had interest in.”

But now they do? Why?

He didn’t answer as quickly as he had before. He seems to mull over the best way to reply to the piercing eyes of his mother. “I’ve gotten to know them better. They were a bit of a recluse before.”

That’s all?

His smile turns into a  smirk, “can’t my motives be that of a young man?”

You’re a lot like him. 

Imre’s smirk evaporates. “That’s not very kind, is it, mamá?” 

Her glassy eyes blink once. But it isn’t her fault. It’s not as if she has said those words. She’s just a reflection of what he wishes. 

He places a small kiss on her hand and lays her hand back on her chest. He leans back in his chair and props his elbows on the armrests. He clasps his hands under his chin. 

Everything is falling into place. After much pestering and bemoaning, Nia finally gave in. She’s not as unfeeling as she wishes she was. Lorcan could be a problem, he should have another talk with him. He seems to forget the stakes. 

And then there’s them. He doesn’t know how much control he has over them. When he feels he’s pulled them close, they try to escape his grasp. It’s equal parts enticing and inconvenient. He’s not interested in the act of people pretending to play hard to get when he can clearly see their enthrallment in their eyes. 

Or is it a reflection of myself?

He grimaces. That doesn’t work. He’s never given over control to someone and he won’t start now with someone who knows neither where they stand nor where they’re going. 

Sometimes he feels as if he could lead them to where they need to go, and they would accept it without the need of duplicity. Other times… he sees those pesky morals get in the way. How gauche, it often leads to unfulfilled potential. 

He knows they’ll end up where the others intend them to. What intrigues him is whether they will go with relish or fear? In those final moments will they beg to be released or hold their chin up high and take the risk of destruction in order to perhaps taste true power?

He would be disappointed if after all they’ve endured, they would lie down to die instead. 

He needs to corner them, somehow. See what response they naturally give in dire straits: freeze, flight, fight or fawn?

He rubs his top lip with his finger. Then the idea forms and he feels his lips stretch once more. Yes, he is like this father. But even with one’s enemy, one must concede that they are a valuable opponent, if not they would not hold such worthiness to be deemed that important. 

He stands up and bends down to kiss his mother’s head, his lips making contact with the thick scar hidden under her wheat-coloured hair. 

“Te quiero,” he whispers before leaving.