Felix's Mom

I picked the cemetery because I knew Mom couldn’t say no. After the way it all went down, what with Dad actually catching her with a raw, hard cock in her mouth, she would never refuse to stand at my father’s grave if I told her to. It was an unseasonably cold Saturday, and I watched the wind gnaw at her as she sat on the tailgate, ankles demurely crossed, hands clutched in her lap like a woman waiting for a firing squad.

The grave was on the northern slope, far from the main road, old trees crowding out the sky so the air always felt half-choked. Perfect for what I had planned. I made sure to park the car facing away from the maintenance shack, then I went about my business. I unloaded the duffel, the camera bags, the folded tripod, and the small steel lockbox. Mom just sat there, letting the cold soak through her skirt, staring at the grass like she was prepping for a pop quiz. She jumped a little when I slammed the trunk.

“C’mon,” I said. “Help me carry this.”

She rose, knees together, and followed. Her shoes were cheap, and they left faint tracks in the dirt. Dad would have hated the shoes. Mom would have hated the shoes too, except she was working a new angle these days: humility, contrition, whatever she thought I wanted. I could see her rehearsing it as she walked, the way she lowered her head at each headstone and made the sign of the cross, muttering the same formula she’d been raised on.

At the grave, I set the cameras up first. A wide shot from the path, a midrange from behind the headstone, another on a small arm clamped to the marble cross. The GoPros were cheap, the kind used by high schoolers for skateboarding videos and porn. I used three because one might fail, and this was a take I couldn’t reshoot.

“Felix,” she said, voice trembling but not from cold, “What’s all this?”

“Documentation,” I said. “For posterity.”

She blinked, then nodded, accepting it. I suppose she’d always needed to believe her life was being witnessed. Maybe that’s why she liked confession so much. Or why she sucked so much cock. The windsocks covered the microphones as I sat them up carefully just out of sight of the cameras.

“Will you at least tell me what this is about?” she tried. A flash of the old sharpness, the desperate need to manage the narrative. Irritation choked me and I had to take a deep breath so I didn’t explode. “Felix, answer me.”

“I will,” I said, “but first we’re going to do a little theater.” I pulled the envelope from my jacket, heavy stock, red wax seal. It was pretentious, but I knew it would get her attention.

She looked at the envelope like it was a live grenade. “What is it?”

“It’s your script,” I said. “You’re going to read every word, and you’re not going to stop until you get to the end.”

Her face spasmed. She opened her mouth, maybe to ask what happened if she refused, but I cut her off with a look. The same look my father had used for years. The same look I’d seen in the mirror when I wanted to terrify myself.

Mom tore the seal with shaking hands, unfolded the paper, and scanned the first lines. Color drained from her cheeks as she read. For a second, I thought she’d faint or run. Instead, she looked up at me. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t say this.”

“You will,” I said. “Because I’m going to record your shame, Mom. Either you say it and do what I tell you, or you’ll have a nice video of me cracking your fucking ribs. And maybe your whore-skull.”

She gave a little shudder, the air rasping out of her in one long, silent moan. Then she squared her shoulders, glanced at the cameras, and began to read. A slow flush crawled up her throat and into her cheeks.

“My name is Anita Pearson,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I am the widow of Thomas Pearson, and the mother of Felix Pearson. I am making this statement of my own free will, so that the truth will be preserved even when I am gone.” She blinked, then shot me a quick, pleading glance. I said nothing.

“I am a liar,” she read, “a whore, and an unrepentant adulteress. For years, I concealed my infidelities from my family. I allowed my son to believe I was a victim, when in truth I was a perpetrator. My husband, Thomas, was a good man, and he did not deserve the things I did to him.”

Her voice cracked on the next line. She squeezed the letter so hard the paper wrinkled. “I sucked cock behind my husband’s back. I loved doing it more than I loved him. My husband’s cock was too big for me to swallow, but I found lesser-endowed men who could fill my mouth and throat the way I craved. When my husband suspected, I gaslighted him. When he confronted me, I manipulated him with sex and lies. I am responsible for the decay of my marriage and the suffering of my family.” She paused, looked up at me, then back at the page. The wind tugged a few strands of hair loose from the tightly wound bun on her head.

“My husband died because of me.” The words hung in the cold like gunfire. “On the night of his death, Thomas discovered me with the man from next door. He found me on my knees, sucking his cock in our kitchen, while my son slept in the next room. Instead of being contrite, I emasculated him. I mocked him. I laughed in his face. I told him I loved the neighbor’s cock more than his. My husband left the house that night in a rage and did not return. He crashed his car into the side of a bridge. The police said he was drunk, but he was not a drunk. He died because he could not live with what I had done to him.”

I watched her face as she read. There was something thrilling about it. The way she forced herself through each sentence, as if the words were a punishment written on glass and she was the one shattering through it. Cold hatred mixed in my gut with the overpowering heat of rage. I doubled my hands into fists.

“I blame myself for my husband’s death,” she read. “I also blame myself for the way I failed my son. Felix deserved a better mother. A mother who was not a whore, a liar, or a cocksucker. I do not ask for forgiveness, because I know I do not deserve it. I am making this statement so that my son can finally punish me as I deserve. I give him full consent to do what must be done, and I accept whatever fate awaits me.”

She winced, drew a shuddering breath, and started again. “I am a liar,” she recited, “a whore, and an unrepentant adulteress. I sucked our neighbor’s cock while my husband watched. I did it because I liked it. Because I am a filthy, insatiable cocksucker who gets wet humiliating her own family. I deserve to be punished, and I give my son full permission to hurt me, use me, or degrade me in any way he sees fit.” Her voice caught finally, and a small sob shook her shoulders. “The video we are making is to remind me of what I am so I can never live down the shame. It cannot, in any way, be used as evidence ...