Eugeo.
Eugeo…
What’s wrong?
Did you have a bad dream…?
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With a soft thrum, orange light filled the lamp.
Out in the hallway, Eugeo buried the bottom half of his face into the pillow in his arms and, without emerging from the darkness, peered through the slightly ajar door into the room.
It wasn’t very big and featured two simple wooden beds. The one on the right was empty, its freshly washed blanket crisply folded. The bed on the left held a thin figure sitting upright, watching Eugeo. The face was hidden due to the light of the lamp in the figure’s hand. The shining white pajama top was slightly open at the chest, revealing even whiter skin. The long hair that hung down to the bed looked as soft as silk.
Beyond the glow of the lamp, the only thing visible were her full lips, curled into a gentle smile.
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It must be cold over there. Come here, Eugeo.
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Underneath the covers, the bed was full of rich, warm, inviting darkness, which only served to remind him of the chilly breeze in the hallway. Just then, he was through the door, tottering toward the bed on uncertain legs.
For some reason, the closer he got, the weaker the lamplight became, and the darker the face of the woman on the bed. But Eugeo kept moving onward, driven by the desire to nestle into the pleasant darkness. His steps got shorter and shorter, and his viewpoint fell lower and lower, but he didn’t find this strange.
When he reached the bed at last, it was terribly tall. He threw down his pillow and used it as a stepping stool to clamber up the side of the bed. Then a soft layer of cloth covered his head, plunging his vision into blackness. He crawled farther, farther into the dark, urged by a kind of primal longing.
His outstretched fingers brushed warm, soft skin. Eugeo clung to it, buried his face in it. The smooth skin wriggled and folded to welcome him in. Clinging to it brought him a numbing satisfaction, and twice as much longing. Smooth arms circled his back and brushed the top of his head.
“Mother…? Is that you, Mother?” he asked, his voice tiny.
The answer was immediate.
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That’s right…I’m your mother, Eugeo.
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“Mother…my mother…,” he mumbled, sinking deeper and deeper into the warm, clammy darkness. As his mind went dull and numb, one little piece of it raised a concern, as dull as an air bubble rising from a muddy swamp.
Was his Mother always so thin…and soft? She worked the barley fields every day—why were her hands so perfectly pristine? And…what had happened to his father, who should have been sleeping in the bed on the right? Where were all his brothers, who always got in the way when he sought comfort from this woman…?
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“Are you…really my mother?”
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That’s right, Eugeo. I’m your mother, and your mother alone.
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“But…where’s Father? Where did my brothers go?”
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Ha-ha-ha.
Oh, you silly boy.
Remember?
You killed them all.
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Suddenly, his fingers slid.
He held up his hands and spread them apart.
Even in the darkness, he could clearly see the bright-red color of blood dripping from his fingers.