Fawn Jacket

This has been edited right down, it was over 1000 words but for my degree I had to shorten it, which saddens me a little for I believe I have lost some of the gold from this piece. This is the first short story, based upon the Character Lisa Jakobowski from 253. It was a exercise in Character Exploration.

Everything collapsed.  My inherited strength, and the the echo of a long unforgiven angst silently imploded.  I stood, statuesque, as the loose buckle clung to the last raindrop, and both the buckle and I mutedly grappled gravity.  The world had changed before the water reached the floor.

Despite the song of its name, Lymphoma marched black armies through Mother, stripping her of weight and breath.  By day and night, conflict blanched her porcelain, leaving angry rashes under her thin folds and splitting her sunless lips.  I housed Mother, allowing her to sweat and stink, as I hurried to and fro fro with soup and water.  I prayed.

I prayed to a long forsaken God.  Mother cried within my black walls, shuddering beneath my pentagram.  I would have removed this at her behest, had the stinging scars of youth not craved a measure of revenge.

“Please,” she would croak upon my many entrances.  I remained impassive to her entreaty.  I changed sheets.  I changed bedpans.  Mother, merely a flowerless shrub, was watered faithfully in ignorance of her inevitable fate.  Death.  Mother would fit the shadowy cloak upon me as she pled.

“Please Lisa,” Mother would whimper.  My music turned loud, I smoke grass until I was anaesthetised against ricocheting questions.  “Would I?” No, “Could I?” I fancied it was like the deer my Uncle tended years ago.

God entered my life the day he and I walked within a nearby spinney and happened upon a broken fawn.  Coldly, in contrast to a the rampant August, Uncle confirmed the fawns broken neck before promptly ending the serendipity with the business end of his shotgun.

“It is kinder to deliver the little fellow to God before it suffers,” Uncle offered indifferently.  I asked Mother about God.  She spent thirty-some years answering.

God, wields  the gavel and dons the oldest periwig.  I learned young that God deliberates over lives filled with trivial sin.

Nightly I slept beneath a wooden cross, rosary beads cascaded like a dull waterfall through a moonlit and and into the shadows beneath.

A pentagram.  A cross.  Mother slept under my paltry symbols, as I did hers.  The fawn frollicked in ethereal pastures, and I would lay me down to sleep and, upon request, pray the lord my soul to keep.

Mother had brought her spineless bible to my home.  I set the tome upon a glass table tucked in a corner out of reach.  Mother cried for her bible, for death, and for the removal of the pentagram.  Mothers faith, as mine was, kept out of reach.

About the time the fawn made adulthood in Babylonian pastures, I came of learning age.  Mother preached John.  I read Darwin.  Mother ate of a body and drank of blood.  I feasted upon Science and drank from the chalices of Pasteur.

To cure me of my heresy, Mother victoriously enrolled me into a Catholic Boarding School.  I was taken to lay by the cold embers of a fire I could no longer tend.

I discovered what it is to plead.  Earnestly I besought Mother to forget abandonment, as I was starved for my evolutionism and incarcerated in solitude for reciting heathen texts.  Never once did the fawns cry reach the doe.  Sometimes to acquiesce is to survive.

Perhaps I kept mother alive in the hope she would see her hopes evaporate, as mine had.  A comforting thought.

“Please end this!”  At night under a medicated stupor I became indifferent to her whines.  In the cold days drizzle, however, the questions returned.  “Can I?” No, “Should I?”

The fawn tired of unchanging jades and emeralds, and I had spent seven years writing to survive.  My atheist thirsts were quieted; as Mother prayed aloud, my lips obediently shaped her words.

My first act of rebellion, upon flunking University, was to blow the remainder of my loan on an angry, angular leather jacket; a slick coke beauty with myriad zips, some concealing pockets and others mere aesthetic deceptions.  Some wild desperate piece nudged my shoulders into the sleeves.

The jacket sheltered me from the elements, tangible and imagined.  The tattooed women selling the garment smiled and tottered to her glass cabinet as pierced teens ogled the trinkets within.

I gazed upon her hypnotic features.  Sapphire eyes, lustrous black lips.  Eleanor animatedly wrapped silver in paper, smiling with a rare erotic freedom.  As she pranced the sylphlike ballet of freedom I wanted her.  I wanted her levity and her contentment.  She took me under her wing, under her body, and under her intoxicating spell.  I didn’t realise the futility of replacing one deity with another.  Mother prayed for salvation.  I performed acts upon my knees.

There was no pride when mother spoke of me.  Her tight lips as she flinched, hearing my name.  Eleanor eventually left me before Mother would speak to me again.  As my jacket hugged me, somewhere a stag wept confused.  One faith, a bad investment.  The other, provided no mana.  

Yesterday I entered Mothers room.  Her pleas were silenced, living only in her lazy eyes.  To acquiesce is to survive.  I thought, as I prepared the catheter that this was truly the first decision that I had ever made alone.  The morphine reduced her gaze to glass, and I folded the Jacket in the closet.  Opening the window to Mothers final room, I dared myself to fly.

The End

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