Milson (Chapter 1)

 

Milson

© T. Rymer, 2013

 

Chapter 1.

Meet Milson Haummer: the only son of an overbearing mother. Milson’s early years were speckled with faint memories of his Mother’s possessive love. The way she would be sure to bundle him up tight on a rainy winter’s day, so tight, he could hardly breathe. Yet; would not hold him when he cried, or scraped his knee. She fretted fanatically over his faith, his nutrition, his schooling and manners, yet, appeared as calm as could be if looking upon her Son’s distress.

In later years in these instances, Milson started to notice less of a serene state upon his Mother’s face, and more of an ever developing self satisfied smile. It would creep its way along her lips; often followed by an exhale of restricted insult.

Milson recalled now, the most significant example of his Mother’s increasing loathing towards a once cosseted child, at the vulnerable age of 14.

Milson had, (only just), survived yet another school day with his so-called “chums”. At best a horrifying time in Milson’s life, increasing hatred towards his only haven, home, only contributed to Milson’s growing suspicion that each day would only be as bad as the last. In the early years Milson would run home to “Mummy” and tell of the teases he had encountered. He would ask his mother why he couldn’t watch television, and why it was that no-one liked him, only to be quoted psalm’s and referred to the Good Book. Milson did refer, although at times it was not of much benefit.

            “Let death take away my enemies. Let them die while they are still young because evil lives within them”, the Good Book had told him…the school told his mother he attempted to “viciously wound other children”. He wasn’t trying to wound them, he was trying to kill them, like the Good Book, and his mother had told him. Didn’t quite cut it with the powers that be unfortunately. Milson had received two weeks suspension, and consequently, two weeks of Bible Camp with the head honcho herself. Milson didn’t quite understand the Good Book. And also couldn’t quite understand why God didn’t grant his wish to give him a good Mum.

            He was sure that no other boy retired to bed before the sun met the horizon. He knew, for five horrifying days of the week, he would be forced to look upon the “normal” children, listening to their laughter as they recalled joyous accounts of last night’s episode of one TV show or another. And, of course, when questioned concerning his lack of commitment towards the conversations, Milson could only respond with “we don’t own a TV” and “It’ on past my bedtime”.

It wasn’t long of course before they stopped asking and begun teasing. Fatty-Boomba. Mama’s Boy. Haummer the Holy Hippo. The usual.

This particular evening as Milson recalled, had, like clockwork included after school “Mass”, followed by an early supper of Sausages and Mash, a semi-assisted scrub bath, and preparation for bed, which of course, included “Final Prayer Time”.

When Milson was younger, and his mother kinder, he quite enjoyed this seemingly loving routine. However, now at 14, he begun to wonder if this way of living- his life at all- was normal. And there was of course, the ‘God’ thing. Milson had Faith, sure, but “Final Prayer Time”?

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my Soul to keep,

And if I die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my Soul to take.

Comforting.

Milson, as expected, had endured yet another day as this, and by bed, was utterly exhausted. For the first time in awhile he found a sense of safety and relief in his sick, secure little world. That night Milson fell into a deep sleep.

He dreamt of a world where he was strong, and tall, and handsome, and needed. He had so many mates he couldn’t remember all their names, so he just called them ‘Man’. And the fawning females (!) were so populous his head reeled. Milson remembered that dream vividly, for he could not forget the morning that followed.

Milson awoke to a surreal feeling, and once his brain begun to wake, a sinking feeling. At first Milson had thought he had wet the bed, and took a moment to analyse this event with the current peer observations regarding his immaturity. Whilst still trying to decipher the nature of the substance, Milson was shocked by the instant intrusion of his mother. Milson looked up at her, shame and question in the eye’s that peered through tear welled lenses. Through this distortion, Milson still clearly saw the smirk slide across her face, as her hand slapped across his.

“You’re a filthy fat Fuck just like your Father”. She hissed.

With that blow she turned on her heel and left the room in a gush of cold hostility. That morning, the routine was wiped as Milson was left to change his clothes and bed on his own.  

Milson had never heard his mother swear, let alone refer to his father in such a way. ‘Your’. ‘You’re father’. The sentences rushed around his head for most of the day, and towards that evening, had finally sunk in.

Milson has a father. And, a mental, religious mother. But, a father. A filthy fat rich Father perhaps, one that would take Milson away from all of this and make him the man in his dream.

 

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