I awoke the next morning to the sound of the phone ringing.
My first thought was that I could not remember going to bed, a suspicion confirmed by the fact I remained in my clothes. Two days and nights and no change in garments. A new record I could add to the list of already staggering achievements in my lifetime.
My second thought was that I felt amazingly well rested for a man who had been terrified of the demon that may or may not spend its time lurking under the bed.
Well, success. Unintentional, but success nonetheless. I had managed to get some kind of control over my little tuxedo wearing friend, and that was not an accomplishment at which to sneeze.
The phone continued its persistent shriek and I hopped out of bed and went to answer it.
“Jet? Brent. You remember its Cecil’s birthday thing today, right?” He was sounding as chirpy as ever, his tone suggesting he had just been informed an unknown uncle had left him a small fortune.
“Oh. Of course.” No, I did not remember that it was Cecil’s birthday thing. “You still want me to be at that thing? You’re serious?”
“Serious as a kick in the nuts, partner. See you at twelve?”
“Sure. I guess.”
“Nice. Later.”
He hung up and I raked my fingers through my hair. The idea of having to brave The Whisperer, even for an artificial birthday party, was not one that inspired feelings of excitement, nor delight.
I glanced at my watch, realised I was due for Selena’s in two hours, and decided I best make some effort at not appearing too much like a homeless heroin addict. I turned back to my room for a shower and spotted a note taped to the door. It read;
“Hi honey, let’s talk. Breakfast at the Sushi Palace 9am.
On me. xXx. Mom.”
Ah. So it had not been a dream.
I paused and considered, my refreshed mind revisiting the previous night and replaying the incident.
Had I overreacted? Misunderstood the situation?
I toyed with the idea that perhaps lack of sleep and stress had played a part, that somehow I had tricked myself into believing my mother had been manipulating me, for what must have been my whole life. Surely that had been the case.
But no, this was not true, as much as I wanted it to be. I had felt it, clear as day and undeniable.
Did I want to go and speak to her? Did I want to face her? What new things would I learn about her now that I had a mind not inhibited by magic?
Yes, I did want to face her, and not only because she’s my mother and I owed it to her, but for another reason as well. What was it? What was that secondary reason, that feeling that was welling up inside me?
It was curiosity. A desire to know, a desire to understand how she did it. Because, despite myself, I was astonished at how incredibly good she had been at manipulating me. She had been doing it for who knew how long, and only now was I aware that anything had ever occurred.
Curiosity… and something else. Even deeper down in the recesses of my mind another thought was blooming, a thought I was more than a little ashamed to acknowledge.
I wanted to know how to do it. I wanted to be able to do it. I wanted these things for the same, tired old reasons anybody wanted power, because I could imagine what I would be capable of.
I could almost not believe my own seemingly uncontrollable attraction to having an advantage over others. It both excited and disgusted me.
With these thoughts still hovering in my mind I took a shower and changed clothes, finding, with very little surprise, that the only remaining shirt I had was still riddled with cupboard splinters.