paradise lies at the feet of mothers
— Kaveh Akbar, Milk
Recently I have been dreaming of the same thing. Recently I have been dreaming of myself heading towards that office where my mother groped for your neck. My boots, brown. My hands, pink. My ears my mouth my ribs. I am sorry for bringing it up like this. I am still learning to be understanding.
//
You wake up coughing, body drenched with sweats and bladder full. The clock on the bedside table reads that it is ten past ten in the morning and Miorine is yet to be back. She has been staying in her study since yesterday evening. Her dirty clothes are in an untidy heap on the floor, accompanied by garbage all over the place: food waste, greasy containers, empty plastic bottles, and used tissues. Very smelly. You reach out to her side of the bed and discover some white hair. You pick up a handful of her hair then blow it away.
Sunlight dapples the sheet where you lay your legs. You lie in the same position until you are able to feel your skin getting burnt.
//
Do you recognize love? I only understand one kind of love. I feel hideous to admit this out loud, but would you be kind enough to accept it?
//
You take your time washing your face. It is an adorable face, according to Miorine's comment, even if there is a nasty bruise on your cheek and an ugly cut on your upper lip, and your chipped incisor is visible when you bare your teeth. Your left eye is less swollen today, thankfully. You poke your index finger in your bulging eyelid and the sharp pain makes you hiss.
//
It's not that I don't love her anymore, because what kind of daughter I'd be if I stop loving my own mother? You once mocked that I was naïve and indecisive. I suppose you are right—I was born to be a dutiful child, loyal and pliant to my mother, for evermore. The monster she planted inside me means safety and I often feel like crawling back to her embrace.
//
There are two faces in the mirror. The reflections are blurred and you are the one who is smiling. Maybe there is something wrong with the mirror, or maybe it is simply what you are.
“You really have grown,” someone says aloud all of a sudden. “Take off your clothes and let me see?”
"Miorine-san?" you look over your shoulder and call out. No one is here with you. You take the pills in the cabinet all at once before going back to sleep.
//
In spite of my mother's manipulation, I would like to believe that the maternal love I had been fed with was honest and sincere. Otherwise, why would she never mind seeing me getting naked in front of her? Why would she stroke the scars on my body like she was hurt for me? Why would she tenderly place her fingers on my hand to help me pull the trigger when I was too timid to do it even though the muzzle was already pressing firmly against her chin?
//
You jolt awake to Miorine's touch on your forehead. "Wake up, Suletta," she says. "You are bleeding." Yes, you are. There was blood in your urine this morning and your eyeballs are faintly bloodshot, and now you notice the pillow stained with your saliva mixed with blood. Revolting. Something hard and pointy is crawling on your tongue. You get up to take Miorine's hand and spit the object into her palm. There it is, your bloody canine tooth.
Your deterioration is supposed to be disturbing and yet Miorine leans in to kiss you on the mouth as though you are lovable to her. "Ah," you mumble shyly.
"Dramatic," Miorine chuckles. You gaze at her with awe as she collects your tooth in her jewelry case.
//
To love is to have control over someone you cherish; to be loved is to be wholly exploited. So go on and put your hands on my throat, Miorine-san. I will let you decide what you want to do with me.
//
You sit on the ground as Miorine waters the plants. The tomato in your hand tastes rusty. You continue eating and greedily sucking the juice like a barbarian, nevertheless.
Miorine is wearing overalls today. You can see the soft hair in her armpits glistens with sweat. Her body has become skeletal due to an abundance of business trips. Every time she holds you, you feel the shape of her bones leaving marks on your body. Your guts rumble. You have not had sex for three months, not because you do not want it, but because you cannot bring yourself to want it.
On some nights while you have trouble falling asleep, shamefully, you listen to Miorine murmuring your name and cursing. You will stay motionless as she kicks you in the legs. Her feet are always cold and your limbs are always trembling. To masturbate is even a futile attempt: you are terrified to find out by whose instructions your hands are guided. And if you dare to close your eyes and picture something feminine, the familiar smell of milk and lilac will overtake you and cause you to gag.
//
Have I ever told you how I like sticky food? I like it gluey and heavy on the flat of my tongue, making it difficult to swallow. I am sorry that I am such a boring husband-to-be, Miorine-san. The more you get to know me, the less entertaining I am going to be. But you do not marry me for who I truly am, do you?
//
"I caught you staring at me this afternoon," says Miorine in the dark when you are lying in bed, not facing each other. You pretend that you are sleeping but the sound of your gulping breaks the illusion. "You seemed to be lonely and I wonder why," she continues.
"Please don't be cruel to me," you beg. For a moment, there is nothing but silence in the room and you are relieved. You are not good enough. You do not want to talk about it.
//
Here is a list of the food I find myself enjoy: tomato sauce, raspberry jam, blood orange tart, beef stew in red wine, the chicken porridge my mother used to make for me when I was sick, your tears and snobs when you cry as we kiss, the look of hollowness on your face when you call me darling, the suspense in your tone when you tell me you are in love with me, the salt between your thighs when I bury my nose in your instep, the insulting words you love to yell at me during intercourse, my cum on your fingers when you thrust them carelessly into my mouth as you are done with me. Come closer, Miorine-san. I will tell you which one is my favourite to eat.
//
And then soundlessly, Miorine's hand is snaking across your waist and down to your belly. Indecency. "Your words hurt me," she whispers. "I'm anything but cruel." Her fingers are painfully gentle inside you and if she calls you a murderer again, this time you will not recoil from her.
"Would things turn out differently if I had been the one pulling the trigger?" you ask carefully.
"Suletta, please," Miorine says. "Please just shut up."
//
When I am daydreaming in your garden, I love to imagine that my mother's caress on my hair is real, her whisper in my ear is real, her kiss on the corner of my mouth is real, her promise of loving me is real, her blessing for our future is real, our blood relation is real. I am my mother's daughter. I don't think I am designed to be better. Are you afraid of the terrible creature I am meant to be?
//
Your mother is observing you by your side while your fiancée is getting you off on her bed. Miorine's knees are forcing you to spread wider. You open and obey like a good husband.
"Suletta, you would rather have this than have me?" your mother says, as if she is sorry.
"Suletta, don't worry. We're as happy as we can be," your wife-to-be says, as if she is oblivious.
Without knowing who you are addressing, you reply, "Yes, yes, yes."
//
Your birthday is around the corner. Happy birthday, Miorine-san. Do you like cakes? Do you like candles? Do you like flowers as red as pomegranate? Would you like to dance with me? I am keeping this ribbon for you. I am saving this bowl of crocus for you. We are going to be celebrating, and happily married! Eventually.