-- Whispering shadows of my past Still beckon to me with fury To remember the slow process of insanity Bred into my soul so early. Shattered mirror reflecting Repulsive face called me... My mother, bottle whiskey in hand, Rants hauntingly, telling me she can Read my mind, like an open book. So clever at eight I dished out her own plate asking slyly: "And what Maman, do you see in this open book?" -disgusted and amused chuckle- "Hate my son.. you hate me don't you?" Staring at her smiles, hair in sad disorder, And the slow dreamy smoke rising from her cigarette. "Why do you want to know if I hate you?" Her smile turns into a sudden expression Of rage. I see that she wants to harm me: Endless streams of words saying I'm ugly Worthless, and will amount to nothing. And all the while, I slowly hear my soul Cringe, slowly tormented into death. -Father comes in, exhausted mentally, looking over the scene.- "What the hell is going on?" Maman begins listing all my sins and evils claiming loudly in drunken slurs that I Told her of my hate for her And that I wished to kill her. I remember his face, Pale, like a ghost. He turns looking at me, Knowing it is nothing but lies But nods and says he will talk with me. <Onward in the hallway of hellish memory.> My father, behind the wheel looking at me After hearing me ask him in desperation Why we suffer her torture, why he didn't Simply take me far from her. He smiles.. sheepishly, with deep remorse. His calm promises, empty, but filled with hope.. Assuring me things will get better. "And what if she tries to kick me out or something?" "How long till she does that?" My father, becoming angry says "Look, you are my goddamn son, the day she attempts to kick you out from MY house it ends right there." Yes yes, plans spinning, In my soul within. I promise my loving soul To be rid of her, Even if it kills me. <Onward in the hallway of hellish memory.> Taunts yet again, thirteen and well studied In her mental games, ignoring her words. For now they are a meaningless song Played out since childhood. Quietly calming the rage, The urge, to grab nearby objects And hurl them toward her. I keep thinking of making her suffer. "-pathetic chuckle- You hate me a lot don't you my son?" "I'm not your son, and your right I do hate you, because I have no mother, just the ghost of the bitch that screamed while giving me birth.. hope it hurt a lot." I watch her face becomes frozen with shock and extreme rage, Noting slight twitches in her eyes and facial features. She drags on the cigarette, and screams: "I am your mother Lee, and you might hate me, but you know what? I hate you too!" "Oh, good maman, good... Say whatever you wish, your words have become music to my ears!" Her rambling increase's the fuel to my inner fire. I stare back with the same hate and desire To make her suffer, revenge rooted deep. But the loving soul within still weeps. <Onward in the hallway of hellish memory.> I lay asleep in bed, and from no where my father enters my room, Drained mentally and spiritually. And pleads with me not to say such things to her. "Why not? Shes been saying such things to me since I can first remember, fuck her." "Shes your mother." "No, no human calling themselves a mother does this." "Just ignore her, say nothing, please Lee, for me." A desperate look from my father, and I realize: He is slipping, and he can barely stand For weariness has crept deep into his core. "OK Papa, OK, if that's what you want." I already sense that he will begin to die And I contemplate what that leaves me with: Alone with her, with my dead father for her to use as The next torture in her sick sense of revenge. Revenge for not loving her. But how could I, when all she did was hurt me? If it comes down to that, she will die. I won't live it, I'll consume the bitch with her own hatred, Spoon fed to me all my life. Until that happens, I wait bitch. I wait for you to make the wrong move, And the right moment to fuel your hate Where I will make everything change. <Onward in the hallway of hellish memory.> -Me and my Father come back home, to find Maman, drunk as usual.- Spilling my glass of water, My "mother" is set off on a rant With the same song. Suddenly a new and interesting question: "When you and your friend play in the street, why do you come back?" I stared at her, silent. And then I knew this was my moment: My hate exploded into her face. She watched me getting up and Leaving out the front door, my mouth firing off Obscene statements, with supreme sadistic joy. Walking two blocks away, my father pulls up In the wagon, compelling me to get in. He drives me back, and Maman asks silly questions, Acting like shes confused about why I did that. I just stared at her with the same intense concentration of hate That her inner mirror reflected back at her each day. The silence breaking her mind down, And she then attempts to kick me out. My father, as if suddenly awakened, Steps in, yelling with more force Than ever, proclaiming divine law: That I will not live outside his own house. She attacks him, and my demon goes insane, As I suddenly explode, rushing toward her. I hurl her into the closet, ready to rush in with My feet to smash her face. My father yells my name and I stop mid-stride And his face portrays the great loss he would suffer If I were to kill her. I observed that day, That he realized he didn't want me to become Her dead gasping ghost. The cops were called, And a wonderful show followed: My mother drunkenly Insults and assaults The officers and is hauled to jail. My plan unfolding perfectly, To exact detail. Except she was supposed to die. But the love I had for that man I called Papa Would not dare let me fulfill it. He comes to me afterward, asking me: "What should I do?" Him looking to me at thirteen for advice. So I tell him exactly what he needed to hear: "Divorce her, before I go insane. -tear falling down my cheek- I can't take it anymore... please?" My intentions were well expressed. But it still contained the truth. He smiled with a new found energy, And said: "OK, that's what we are gonna do." I reply: "Just in time." <Message for Chantal, the woman I called Maman, and at times cruelly " Mother"> Oh, yeah Maman, you were good at that game You played with me... Teaching me how to hate. But didn't you also teach me to submit to my determined fate? (horribly dreamed up by you and whatever demons you pissed off) Well, I saved your lessons, broke them down into patterns, And saw your weakness. And I exploited it. I used your comments about Papa not being able to save me To plan ahead my master design to save him and myself. And to exile you from our home, even the country it resided in, For you ran back -tail-tucked-under- back to Belgium. I bet you wondered, then, how that worthless good for nothing child beat you in your own game. And even manage to undo in time the rooted programming you stuck in me. Rearranging it into a mix of you and my father. Comprised of all the good virtues of you both, And the secret key that put it all together and made me whole. Yes, Maman, back then I cursed you with indifference. But now I thank you, for you were the thing that fueled My desire to solve the riddle. You forgot foolishly my love for Papa, and the need I had Not to let him succumb to your torture. At the time, my own fall Didn't matter. And I realized real hate of pure fury comes With a core of love, so I know now the gasping moans Of what lives in that flesh suit of hate. You said I was weak, it made me strong. You said that I hated you, but I now realize That I loved you. But I could do nothing to help, For you were lost to me long ago. Go in peace, oh Mother of Hate and Rage May death bring calm to your tormented And deranged thoughts. <And a message to a dead man I called Papa.. Jean was his name.> And to Papa, I forgave you long ago for Not being as strong as you should have been. Or that's what some would say.. I thank you, for you gave me love and wisdom, The benefit of your humor and intelligence, And drove me to be strong for myself, and even for you. I never understood then as a child, why you asked My advice, and now I do... Papa, you have been dead for A year now, and I cry sitting here missing your voice. I have sweet whispers: I love you...