The Progeny

The Progeny - Part 1

She's here, I can feel her presence. I walked and walked until I saw her for myself, being drawn to her like the moth is so famously drawn to the flame. My mother stood at the edge of the cliff, staring down at her rocky doom bellow. She doesn't look afraid, she doesn't look anything, her face is blank like it's been carefully sculpted from stone. Emotionless. Her long black hair is blowing across her face, but she doesn't seem to mind, she doesn't even attempt to push it back. She's wearing a white, scooped neck gown, the sleeves are long, too long, almost burring her hands within. I approach her, I feel like I couldn't run toward her any faster if I physically tried, yet my feet are barely moving. I try to call out to her, but my voice has been theft from me. What is she doing? Why is she here? I finally reach her, as she turns and notices me her face breaks into a smile, like she's been waiting for me the entire time. Her smile is spreading as she starts to walk towards me. Just as I'm about to reach out and touch her, her smile starts to drop, as she looks past me panic starts to take over her entire body, starting with her face and slowly spreading like a cancer to every inch of her. Her breathing starts to quicken and she looks petrified, her bright green eyes full of horror. As I'm about to turn around to identify what's making her act this way her mouth falls open and I'm finally granted with words after what feels like hours. "Run!" she screams and like that I'm robbed of her as I wake up, violently slammed back into the present day, back into reality.

The Dreams have been getting worse, since I turned 18 it's like a curse has been cast upon me. I mean don't get me wrong, I think about her often, everyday in fact. But these dreams, no, not dreams, these aren't dreams, if they were they wouldn't be filled with so much horror and pain, these are a thing of nightmares. It's been 15 years since she died. 15 years since a felt a mothers touch or had the unconditional love that we're all automatically blessed with simply by being born. 15 years.

I peel myself from my sweat soaked bed and head to the bathroom. My pale skin is looking paler, like I've not seen the light of day for years, but that just can't be true when you live in Phoenix. I look like her, bright green eyes stare back at me as I gaze into the bathroom mirror, my black hair is the only evidence of my tossing and turning all night, it's short on the sides but doing it's own wild thing on top. I like it like that, like a happy accident, like I've not spent hours carefully combing and waxing each follicle. It's nearly time for me to head out to work for the day. I decided to leave school the second I could and get a job, my plan is to make as much money as I need as fast as I can so I can leave this dumb-ass town behind and all the painful memories that come along with it. I have no reason to stay. Nothing or no one to stay for.

After showering and brushing my teeth I throw on my black slim-fit tracksuit bottoms and a plain grey T-shirt, I'm a mechanic, so I don't need to pay too much attention to what I'm wearing, besides, I'll be hidden under my overalls once I get to the garage. Mr Dixon was kind enough to give me a job straight from school, I've always been naturally talented when it comes to fixing things, I used to play around with my dads car, taking vital pieces out and putting them back in, you know, for practice. I enjoyed it, until he would catch me and beat me within an inch of my life for tampering with his pride and joy, or as he put it "the only thing in his God damn life that he gives a fuck about", I mean yeah it hurt, but if you only knew my dad and the relationship we had, you'd see that that's actually quite tamed compared to his usual actions and antics towards me. When my mother died he died to, not physically, but spiritually and emotionally, he hates me for how much I look like her and how I remind him every day of his life that she's no longer here. I can't help but feel like he blames me for her death, but what could I have possibly done at three years old to cause my mothers death? It's a classic tale of mother dies and dad turns to drink and violence to numb the pain, but I don't have time for that shit, I need to leave before my fate is the same, slowly drinking myself into a numbing coma.