A Fake Ghost

Once again, I was terribly embarrassed at the life I imagined for myself contrasted.

“Nobody is more embarrassed than your mother,” my fake mother said. She used to like laughing at my misery because she had created it. She was what was wrong with every single little thing in my life, but I still loved the idea of mothers because they were everywhere I went. Everyone had one and I was surely to benefit, even the slightest minimum, being around one and having needed one. I also enjoyed watching her trip over her own words and talk about the father I never had because that always pained her more than me.

“You don’t have a father. You were born from a guiding light that entered into me. A beautiful one. It was most strange.”

I did believe her because it made sense to me. I wanted to like her a little bit more but whenever I imagined that I did, I pictured a world in which we both laughed, and shared, and talked about our feelings, and kissed, and said to each other how much we meant to each other, and I could not withstand to live in a world where that could ever happen. What had happened to me?, I would ask myself, and after that question nothing, no more questions. Sometimes I wish I had more.

“You disappoint me again. You disappoint your father as you were meant to be. Where is your father when you need him to set you straight?”

“Well, why did you kill him, mother? Why did you kill him before I could go back and force him to leave you?”

“No, no, of course you couldn’t do that. That doesn’t work… unless… you are indeed the man I think you are.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, really. I lost my faith in believing. Now all I do is pray. That which helps me and I ignore your growls.”

“Go back! Go back and fix my life and I shall reward you with the greatest gift of all! The gift of not being your mother!”

She went away my fake mother and I was left alone with nothing but my imaginary land with imaginary friends.

Every one of my fake friends and fake family never understood what was it about me that really struck a nerve with me, being the way I was. There was something unnatural about my mother and about myself but I could not really tell them what it was and, since they rarely seemed to like me even though I had created them, I did not press the matter any further.

My mother came back every once in a while to start the conversation again to ask me still why I hadn’t forgiven my father, but she bellowed and blathered all of her responses. I had something to say to her but I forgot like I forgot that I ever existed or that I ever had a mother and that I was talking to no one in particular and that no one ever loved me because I had stopped being listened a while ago. Whenever people spoke of me, I wondered a lot about the nature of miracles, and I admired only the truest, natural state of deception and decadence. My mother surely could understand the same, that we were not the same, and were forever separated by the words we spoke.

“Say it again! Tell me! What you have to say!”

“Every time I…” I imagine myself I am ashamed, my cheeks turned red, and I salivated strangely, thinking about her because she was never alive in any of my fantasies but I was neither complete nor do I felt fine. “…I look at you, I wonder what I did. All the things I did to deserve you. And I do deserve you… I really do.”