William's Mom
I set the honeytrap with an e-mail and two bottle-rocket lies. I needed a jury to see me as a thief of moments, not of bodies, and Mom’s endless belief in my genius made her the easiest mark. She replied instantly, said she’d “dress up” and asked if she should bring takeout. “Nothing that drips,” I told her. “It’s all about the clean lines.” She sent back a smiley with lipstick, which would have been tragic if it wasn’t also hilarious.
By four, I turned off the heat and let the studio go cold on purpose. It’s hard to act superior when you’re shivering, and Mom’s image of my life was always built on the soft focus of memory: radiant, charming, always with an inside joke to share. Gallery-darling stuff, if you believe the propaganda. She showed up in a powder-blue overcoat and black patent boots that cost more than my rent, clutching a pastry bag and grimacing as she surveyed the building. She hesitated in the entryway, bracing herself against the chill and the chemical reek, heels clicking with the tentative grace of someone unused to trespass.
“Billy!” she called, and then, lowering her voice into what I guessed was meant as sophistication, “William.”
“In here,” I called from the far room, not bothering to feign busyness. The centerpiece was ready: a twelve-foot scaffold, the cheap kind used for drywallers, and ringed around it, mirrors. All sizes of mirrors were arranged, some full-length, others the kind you find in makeup palettes, dozens of them, so when you stepped into the beam you saw yourself replicated and distorted, a microcosm of narcissism and horror. The centerpiece, though, was just empty. I’d scraped out its “belly” and left nothing but a folding chair.
Mom crossed the room with an expression that toggled between delight and confusion. “What is this?” she asked, lowering her voice as if talking in a museum, eyes dancing around the set.
“It’s the new show,” I said. “The installation is called I See My Guilt.”
She didn’t roll her eyes, which was an indication of how far gone she already was. “I love it,” she lied, looking around for some sign of color or maybe a human touch. “But what’s it for?”
“You’re the first to see it,” I told her. I let my smile show teeth. “And I want you to help me break it in.”
The worried-mother routine surfaced, tucking hair behind her ear, glancing to the sides, trying to figure out if this was a prank waiting to go viral. She saw only herself, multiplied. “Break it in how?”
I gestured for her to take a seat in the chair. She sat, awkward in the space, the coat bunching up around her neck. For a second she looked young, like the photos I’d found boxed up after Dad’s funeral, lipstick perfect, skin pulled tight by unspoken hunger. Then the mirrors caught her from every side and she looked ancient. She saw it too. There was a micro-second flinch, the flash of self-recognition followed by the practiced mask.
“Don’t move,” I said. “Part of the effect is to be trapped by your own existence.” I carefully wrapped a strap around her chest, just under her arms and above her breasts. Another one pulled her hips against the sturdy wooden chair. “Not too tight?”
“Not tight,” Mom said. “But it’s… Uncomfortable.”
“It’s supposed to be. A little, anyway.” I fastened her upper arms and wrists to the chair. Then her thighs, calves and ankles. “The whole point of it is to demonstrate how a person is trapped in their own body. No matter what you do, you can’t get away from yourself.”
Mom waited for all of two seconds. “Point taken. Let me up.”
“Not yet.” I stepped back and looked at my mother. Really looked at her. It seemed impossible that I had spent so much of my life afraid of her. But, as Doctor Riley said, facing your fears always reduces them. What she had neglected to say was how hard it made my dick. “What is the first guilty thing that comes to mind?” I looked at her startled face. “That’s part of the project. Each subject gives their first response.”
Her throat bobbled. “I… I guess…” A tear ran down her cheek, surprising us both. “I can’t say it in front of you,” she said. “It’s a marital thing.”
“Bad in bed?” I stepped back into the single blind spot behind her. “What’s wrong, Mom? Didn’t keep Dad happy? I can guess if you like. You were a dead fuck?”
“William!” Mom pulled at her restraints. “This isn’t funny.” When I didn’t answer, she whispered, “Don’t leave me alone.” I made a small noise so she would know I was just waiting. “Fine. If you must know, I never did something your father loved.” Her head rolled back, and she blinked at tears. “It’s a thing a lot of women don’t like, but every man seems to just love it.”
“You didn’t suck his dick?” The flush on her face told me I was right. It fit. Mom was too uptight to even say it to herself. But if she wanted out… “Mom, you have to look at yourself and confess. It’s the only ...