A writer for ten years with. a severe case of wanderlust. She spends most her time with her head in the clouds.
I find this whole thing rather silly. I already have a journal that I write in all the time, but my therapist wants me to start another one. She said that I make my writing too flowery in my other journals, I write in them as if I want them to be read as if they are a piece of my literary masterpiece.
She wants me to get down to the dirty awful things that go on in my mind. She said to take my rage out on these sheets of paper. She promised me no one will ever read them. She thinks that this is going to help me release the anger and resentment. I have been writing my whole life. I am pretty sure if it was going to work some sort of Gypsy magic on me, it already would have.
I kind of feel ridiculous writing with a purpose, Like Oh my Dearest diary how I have missed you. How I want to rip all your pages out. I can’t decide whether I love it or hate it.
Where should I begin? Mother thinks I am a sociopath, I think she is a Vampire. I am pretty sure she is afraid for her life. She should be. She killed my father. They say it wasn’t her fault, but why would she marry such an old man to bear children for?
So now I am left all alone with my neurotic mother, and no male role model, to show me affection. It is okay I get plenty of attention from men, and I know something she doesn’t know. I have killed her. It was so easy, and I don’t think anyone will ever know. I have actually killed her twice. I saw my mother lurking in the eyes of both women. It was so easy. Even if they figure out they were murdered, how could they ever be connected.
It was getting dark, and she had no idea where She was. She looked around, trying to regain her bearings. She was standing in a small clearing, woods all around. To the left, the woods seemed endless. To the right were the foothills of the Smokey mountains.
She noticed a single crow flying past her toward the woods. Since EVERYONE knows that a single crow is bad luck, she decided, her best bet would be to walk toward the hills. She hoped to find a nice town, at the bottom of the hill. She wondered if a street sign would be too much to ask for. She shook her head wearily, hoping that the movement would jar something loose, in her head.
She had many questions and zero answers. Where was she? Why was she wandering around in the middle of nowhere? And most importantly, who was she? She didn't even remember her name, yet she was full of useless information like a single crow is a bad omen. She could remember nothing about herself.
She heard a rickety old truck behind her. She wanted to wave the driver down but was scared that he may be some kind of savage killer. She held her breath, and decided to go for it, she really needed help, and she was just going to have to go out on a limb, and trust someone.
Leeland slammed his phone on the table, and folded his arms across his chest, pouting like an insolent child. He quickly shuffled the contents of the drawer in front of him, and breathed a sigh of relief, as he found a perfectly rolled joint. He put it against his lips, lit it, and inhaled deeply. As he exhaled, he began to calm down. He knew, and hated, the fact that he behaved this way every time he spoke to his mother. However, knowing was just half the battle. He had never been able, to sum up, enough courage to react any differently.
This was why he hit the road, as soon as he turned eighteen. He got a job, at the Daily Planet newspaper when he was sixteen. He saved every single penny he made until he was eighteen, and then bought an R.V and an old truck. He lived in the R.V., in the parking lot of the newspaper's printing center, until he finished college.
Halfway through university, he submitted an article to an editor he became friendly with. Apparently, he had a natural talent for writing and photography. This surprised him because according to mommy dearest, he was a grade-A fuck-up, not even worth the air he breathed. Once he finished school, his editor friend hooked him up with a couple of more newspapers and even a magazine, and he became a highly sought-after freelance writer.
Over the years, he had been offered many full-time positions, but he had the traveling bug, bad, and he could not stand to be in one place very long. Suddenly he shook his head and came back to reality. He had been staring off into space for so long, that the joint had gone out. He pounded his fist on the table, knocking over stray cups, and a full ashtray. He screamed obscenities, raking his hands through his curly red hair.
He looked around his small home and realized he had a lot of work to do. If he had to go home, this place needed to be spotless. It will be one less thing for his mother to throw in his face. He wished that he could be as callous, and uncaring to her, as she was to him. He really did try. When she just called and told him she hurt her back, she didn't feel safe because two of her friends had been murdered.
He meant to tell her, that Karma was a bitch, and hang up the phone. However, when he opened his mouth, the only words that fell out were words of submission. He was so disgusted, and disappointed with himself, that he couldn't even stand it. He picked up the fifth of Wild Turkey, off the floor, which had become a victim of his temper tantrum, and took a long, soothing swallow. He set the bottle down and re-lit his joint.
This is going to be a long night, he thought, as he opened his laptop, to see if there was any truth to these murders that had his mother so frightened. The sooner he got to the bottom of this, the sooner he could go on with his life, and leave his mother in the past, where she belonged.
Leeland sat up straight. He could not help but become interested in the story that was unfolding in front of him. He had a naturally inquisitive nature, and these were no ordinary murders. He was surprised that this was not a huge headline, but then he realized that the murders had happened in different counties. The police departments had not yet connected the dots, but his mother had.
This headline was a gift from the news gods. This caliber of the story was not something that just fell in your lap. Yet, thanks to his mother, that was exactly what just happened. He shook his head and chuckled thinking that at least she is finally good for something, other than tearing him apart.
He took another long swig of his whiskey and looked at the papers in front of him. He had written down the facts on each case, and could not believe that they had not been connected yet. He knew he had to get down there sooner than he had originally thought, or someone else would figure out the connection, and he would miss his chance.
As he started cleaning things up, so he could leave that night, the details of both cases were screaming in his head, each victim fighting for attention. Both of these ladies had died from a gas leak, which in itself is not a big deal.
Unfortunately due to human or product error, this is something that happens. When he first read the brief articles about each death in the newspaper, he thought it was a little strange they both died of gas poisoning, but it was possible. He figured his mom may have been overreacting.
Luckily, he had contacts in both police stations and called in a favor. He quickly learned that these deaths were more than they appeared. The strange thing is, under the description of the body, each victim had a swastika tattooed in henna on the stomach, where the womb was. They each also had two fresh holes in their neck. The holes appeared to be made by a meat fork. Both police departments were on the verge of ruling the deaths accidental. They did note the tattoos, but there was no way to know if they were put there intentionally, or not.
Leeland decided not to tell them what he knew. He wanted to get to the area and continue his research. If he told them about the connection, he would lose his edge. He would give them the information, once his story was written. He smiled to himself. When he woke up this morning, he had no idea that by the end of the day, he would be tracking a serial killer.
As Leeland drove, he could not help, but think about his mother. This is exactly why he didn’t want to do this, her angry words just kept ringing in his head. The name-calling and anger hit him with stinging force, in memory, just as they did when she first said them.
He had been driving nonstop for 12 hours and was so lost in thought, that he almost drove right past the young lady standing in the middle of nowhere. He slammed on his breaks and looked into the rearview. Yes, there was someone standing there. He backed up and rolled down the window. She reluctantly took a couple of steps toward his truck, and then he was staring into intense brown eyes.
He got a hold of himself and noticed that she looked terrified. He didn’t want to cause her anymore to fear. He also noticed, that her clothes were all dirty, and looked slept in.
He focused on controlling his voice. He did not want to appear threatening. He whispered, "Hello ma'am, my name is Leeland. It looks like you may have found yourself in some trouble. Do you need a ride? I will take you wherever you need to go."
she seemed to be fighting some deep impulse to run, but finally, she shook her head and said, "yes".
Just one word. That's all she said, as she climbed in. She kept her eyes down so intensely, Leeland couldn't help but look at the floor, to see if something was there. Unfortunately, things got a little crazy after that. She could not tell him where she needed a ride to, she didn’t seem to remember much about anything, not even her name.
She sat there, in silence, with her hands folded in her lap, and just drifted somewhere else in her mind. He could tell that she was searching for answers inside of herself, so he kept quiet. He knew she would talk when she was ready. He decided he would fill the silence.
It's all in the eyes
When she walked up to the truck she was shaking in fear, but once she looked into the driver’s kind eyes she instantly relaxed a little. He said that his Name was Leland, and offered her a ride. She was still very reluctant to get into the truck with a stranger, but she really didn’t have another choice.
When he asked her where she was heading, she cringed inside and told him she had no idea. Apparently, he was going to go help his mother in Maryville, a small town in Tennessee. He was coming all the way from Lakeland, Florida. They were currently in the Foothills of the Smokey Mountains, about an hour from his mother. She told him that would be as good a place to go as any.
He looked at her with curiosity, but she was not sure if she should tell him anything. As he spoke about the places he had been, and where he was going she started to relax even more. She realized that he was genuinely a nice guy, and seemed genuinely concerned.
Well, he was definitely tall, dark, and handsome. Oh, I had high hopes for this one. He stood straight as a pole and had stern Nazi eyes. He could have been my father, with his no-nonsense attitude, and an angry scowl.
Unfortunately, the evening was so drab. He took me to the Colonial Inn. He ordered for me, which I sort of liked, but then he started talking, and talking, and talking. Yet he said nothing of great importance. He seemed to have no capacity to think. What he was looking for was a maid and a child bearer. That is not what I have in mind for my life. I am going to be something. My name will be known around the world. He would just hold me back…
I just drank my wine and smiled politely. It was red and reminded me of blood. I imagined that it was salty as it ran, soothingly, down my throat. It calmed me. He was perturbed that I ate very little. I felt that I needed the wine more than the sustenance, and I certainly earned it. He asked me if I wanted to go on a walk, but I could not imagine listening to him carry on anymore. I faked a migraine. If only he would have let me talk.
If only he would have kept his mouth shut, for even a short period of time, I would not have had to go to bed alone last night. I imagined him lying naked in my bed. Stern brown eyes looking over my body, taking in my curves, would it have been worth it? Next, I imagine reaching for him hungrily, begging him to come closer, and then suddenly, he remembers some useless fact that he must blurt out immediately. The moment would be ruined, it would have been torture. What a shame. We could have had quite a bit of fun... I wonder what his mother is like.
Had lunch with mother today. I was already seated, when she arrived. I did this on purpose. If I am paying for a show, I am damn well going to watch it from the beginning. I sipped my Merlot, as I watched her make her grand entrance. She adjusted her face, perfecting the "concerned mother" mask, as she opened the door. When our eyes met, she smiled at me. The scorn hidden beneath the friendly gesture whispered secrets only I could hear.
After she sat, she reached for my hand "How are you, DARLING?" Before I could answer, she looked at my drink with disapproval and asked if I should be drinking with my medication.
I smiled – I too can put on a mask – Plus, the joke was on her- I stopped taking my medication weeks ago, but just for fun I played her game and told her it would be fine.
She didn't have a chance to answer because the waiter, who had an impeccable sense of timing, took that opportunity to approach the table. A small glimpse of anger, then she took a moment to adjust her mask, and smiled politely at the waiter she ordered Cezar salad and water for both of us, and then dismissed the waiter with a look of disdain. I looked down in sorrow at my half-empty glass of wine. How I wished I could implore him just to bring me the bottle. I think he understood the tension in the air because he departed just as quickly as he had appeared – Oh How I envied him.
She wanted to talk. She explained in great detail how I was ruining my life. She thought I should go get a steady teaching job and abandon my dreams of being an accomplished writer. I nodded watching her heartbeat in her Carotid Artery.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, the beat sped up as her anger flared, turning her angry words, into a symphony of hate.
After my father died, she claims she worked herself half to death, so that my brother, and I, had a chance at life. She insists that she gave up her life for ours, she was not pleased with her investment…I wonder if she wants her money back?
I picked up my glass with the intention of gulping down, the rest of the sweet calming liquid. As I did, I envisioned my hands wrapped around my mother's throat. Squeezing until the constant thumping stopped. The show was over, and the fat lady was about to sing.
Suddenly, my attention was drawn back to the table. The noise around me rose and fell, and the smell of food was mingled with the smell of iron. I noticed a look of unabashed horror come across my mother's face and realized my hand was starting to throb. I must have squeezed my wineglass too hard, as I raised it to my lips because suddenly there were shards of glass everywhere.
I looked at my fingers in awe, as the blood poured out, mixing with the wine on the table. I wondered what it tasted like. I bet mother knew.
I slowly raised my fingers to my lips, but before I could discover the secret, the waiter arrived, with a napkin to wrap around my hand. Lunch was over. A trip to the hospital and some stitches were in order. A small price to pay to get away from my mother's constant disapproval.
Oh well, nothing some fresh air won't fix. I have Nazi blood running through me. A little cut is not going to stop me.
Vampire - An Analysis of Sylvia Plath's Poem "Daddy"
- Vampire - An Analysis of Sylvia Plath's Poem "Daddy"
This is an analysis on Sylvia Plath's poem Daddy. It explores a deeper meaning found between the lines of this poem. Is the vampire in this poem her mother? Continue reading and decide for yourself.
© 2019 Lisa Chronister