By Adam Lock
When I’m home, if I can change my clothes, make tea, all without waking mom, she won’t be angry with me.
103, 104, 105…
126 slabs to go.
There was the time I threw a tennis ball against the house wall and caught every rebound. Doing it one hundred times in a row without dropping it meant Mom would be ok.
Don’t like to think about it—but there was the time Dad came home, the same day Mom came back from hospital. Only for one night. He and mom rowed. Don’t like to think about it. Through the shouting, he told her she was being selfish, that she wasn’t thinking about me, that I should live with him. The next day, I ate my tea without moaning, like I’ve done every day since, so he won’t come back.
167, 168, 169…Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
There was the time I used only the hot water to fill the bath and still got in. There was the time I tightened or loosened every screw on every plug socket and every light switch, so the head of each screw was straight, was a + and not an x. There were the clothes in the loft, the toys in my room, the pins in mom’s sewing box.
Because I’d stirred her cup of tea too many times, there was the day Mom sat in the bath crying, saying all she wanted to do was shave her legs, that they treated her like a child.
Made my bed this morning, so the quilt was the right way round, so it fell down each side of the bed evenly. Checked before I left. I did, I remember. And the light was off. It was. Went back to check, and it was. Brushed my teeth a hundred times. Washed my hands for thirty seconds. Stepped down onto the stairs left foot first.
Yesterday, when I was tidying the garage, stacking the boxes so the largest was on the bottom, each pushed against the wall, I found three razors, still in the packet. Remembering how she cried about shaving her legs, I gave them to her. She cried again, but I know she was pleased because she kissed me.
Tonight, I’m going to clean the tiles in the bathroom. If you brush hard enough, the joints turn white.
202, 203, 204…
One day, I’ll stop things falling apart—stop things changing. One day, I’ll rewind it all—fix everything so there are no cracks to step on.
Nice portrait of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. One is uncertain if things are taking place in the past, present, or future in this story, although one suspects mother was in the hospital. Mr. Graybanks, you hint at, but it is not quite clear whether the narrator killed his father, and his mother covered it up. Of course, the main character may be in denial, which is why it appears vague. I think it would help the reader to underline your intention here a wee bit more. This is a skin crawler of a flash.
This is a chilling portrait of someone with a mental disorder. I assumed the character was self-mutilating with the “stabs,” so I have to agree with Keith about the confusion over what was being stabbed. Is it important that I understand this? Perhaps Mr. Greybanks wanted us to wonder about it? At any rate, I appreciate the insight into OCD and enjoyed the story.
slabs or stabs.
It’s “slabs” not “stabs”. As in slabs on a concrete footpath, the “cracks” are the lines between the slabs.
This story riveted me from beginning to end. As to the questions other readers have, I believe that flash fiction is a “cool” medium that lets us, as readers, fill in the blanks. I love that we don’t know some of the answers in the story. This is inside the narrator’s head, and because of that approach, the voice uses a shorthand telling because he/she knows the story well. No need for specifics.
So sorry for this kid, who felt responsible for whatever was wrong with Mom. Ordering his universe was the only defense he (she?) had. The reader ends up knowing absolutely nothing about the kid, except that he/she is scared and trying to fix things the only way he/she can. Aren’t we all? Great story.
I followed this storyline. It was insightful and creative. Giving the mother razors to make her happy was kind, but it had me sitting on pins and needles because of her implied mental state. Dramatizing. Great story.
Thank you all for the comments. Really appreciate you taking the time to read it. It’s a great community on here – love reading the stories and comments.
Great little account of OCD. Loved the detail and the quiet agony.
Excellent!
A suicidal mom, a dad whose had enough and a kid trying to make his life work anyway he can. All bases covered in a few hundred words. Very good.
An excellent piece of writing, chilling and at the same time so sad.