A Kind of Loving

Some thought her a clinging troll, others the saccharine offering of a dark love. The mother loomed over his life, swaddled his senses. Each day, the boy stumbled further from that womb. He played no games with boys; he was the game they played. His mother drew out the threads of guilt she had planted. As puberty gnawed, she began to fashion her substance inside of him.. She made herself the hollow at his center until her abnormal demands propelled him to a toolshed where he now had only to choose between a hammer or an axe.