Mothering

Whispers to My Mother

rosemary runningBy Karen Price

Mother. Oh mother.

Before I drew breath you knew me. You whispered (deep whirs) whispered my name in your sleep. When my father ascended from his pit of bright and beautiful lies and lowered himself onto your body and plunged deep, you felt me take root, my tendrils winding through your soul.

I am the one who twisted your womb with flares of red-hot pain, who shot beads of sweat onto your pale petal face, like pinpricks (prick nips crisp pink) pinpricks. Like licks. I am the one who twists wombs with my claws and words with my tongue, the one who contorts and distorts.

I and my father are one.

I made you drink the tannis root (nation’s rot) tannis root, but only to feel you obey. With every act of submission, with every sip, I grew stronger. I made you mine. And it was dark inside you but not as dark as I have known, for I have known darkness like no other, darkness with no hope of light, a fearsome darkness, mother, but your darkness is where I bloomed and grew, where I took possession of you.

And when I slithered from between your thighs Dr. Saperstein (retina piss rape insist) Saperstein placed me in a cradle black. He took me from you but the thin walls could not hide my cries, for I am yours and you are mine, and you came to me, fiery with desire. You came to me, mother, and you bent over my black-swaddled cradle and I finally saw you from the outside, your pale petal face, and you cried.

And you loved me, or you tried.

Even though I have my father’s eyes.

 

rosemary screamKaren Price  lives in Orlando, Florida, where she enjoys living a relatively horror-free life with two dogs, one cat, and many supportive and inspirational friends, including her colleagues at Full Sail University, where she is a course director in the English Department.

Rosemary’s Baby (dir. Roman Polanski, 1968) is considered by many to be the gold standard of high brow horror.

 

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