Milson (Chapter 2)

Chapter 2.


Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well…You may have noticed a few of my personal affects have vacated your premises.

As have I.

I can only assume beneath your Mary Mother of God makeup you are deeply relieved that I will no longer burden your doorstep. No longer will you be forced to prepare my attire, as I am so obviously incapable of dressing accordingly; to whom I ask?

No longer will you be forced to scrub me clean, sure that no dirt remains from all that joyful playing I do with my school chums on the Footy field so often…No longer shall you need to force your faith down my throat. Spoon feed your spirituality.

            You can have it.

You might as well. It has given me nothing. You have given me nothing. You took my childhood, you took my sanity, you took my chances of being loved, you even took all the rudie girl mags I ever owned. Every friggen’ one.


If that means nothing to you, know this;

I will not let you take my life.

You gave it to me, it’s time you let me have it.


Milson. x


* * *

As Milson lay his head down on the sharp wet grass, now some few hundred kilometres from his mother and her unstable structure, he thought of her, as always, as he said his prayers. That night however, as he peered up at the endless entities above, for once, he did not wish they would be his final prayers.

Milson spent the next few months travelling. He began searching for his father, but found the task tiresome and quite dangerous. Milson found, especially in the beginning, he needed all senses to stay alive. His sheltered upbringing left vulnerability written all over is pudgy, acne prone face. Also, he didn’t even know his Father’s name.

Well, he guessed it could have been Haummer, but even then assumed it was his mother’s maiden name and his conception somewhat hush, hush.

Milson’s mother had told people his father was a soldier in the war, that they were dating before he was sent away, and in her hour of need upon bidding her one true love goodbye, broke all her religious beliefs and sinned in un-matrimonial relations.

Milson couldn’t imagine his mother ever doing this, let alone letting a man see her naked and tended to believe what was whispered around the school yard. Scants of illegitimacy, giggles of “bastard son”, the general rumour being his mother was sick of spinsterhood and set out for a sperm donor.

Milson stopped in small towns for short times, never any more than three days; for fear that he would be noticed. He slept in parks and paddocks. He found himself in grocery stores, checking out the milk cartons for his face, standing in front of the freezers in the mid summer, enjoying the cool, and hating the faces that peer out from the carton that day, for it was never his. During those months, Milson had felt strange feelings inside of him, some happy, new, excited, wondrous at the wondrous world we live in. Yet most times, especially at night, Milson would feel empty. Empty and full, all at the same time. His stomach hurt, more from the constant sinking feeling that lay dormant rather than lack of food. He felt he couldn’t relax; his head throbbed from the constant stream flow of thoughts; always on guard, watching people watch him, wondering what they think; waiting for that voice behind him to say “come on now Son, time to go home to your mother”. At that point a panic attack of some form would inevitably appear from nowhere, sending Milson into a flurry of rambling pleas to God; begging for freedom, crying for sanity, gasping for air. Already at 14, Milson felt 40.

Now, at 40, this was quite an ironic thought as Milson longed for his childhood. Well, not his childhood as such, but a childhood. One he would now look upon fondly, joyous accounts of mischievous midnight missions with mates, long warm nights with girls, a loving family and home. Milson could not recall any of this. Or dream of it, for he knew nothing of it.





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