David Elliott

My mother is a jinx.

And believe me when I say that I don’t make this remark lightly. This opinion comes from years of thorough, painstaking research, reliable witnesses and physically and emotionally crippled men and women.

My suspicions that there was something ‘not quite right’ about her were first aroused during my early childhood.

As far as I can remember, the first instance had to do with my chewing on a deflated balloon. It was red, you see, and in my optimistic, illogical, four-year-old mind, that meant that it was strawberry flavour. 

I can remember it like it was yesterday. There I was, sitting on the grime-encrusted, orangey-brown carpet that covered out lounge floor, my legs crossed, my eyes closed, and my pearly set of milk teeth gnashing away on my strawberry-flavoured balloon.

Life was good.

Suddenly, the peace was shattered. My momentary sense of pleasure was torn away from me in a flash, as my Mother came racing into the room, a mixture of disbelief and furious anger devouring her face, and fire from the darkest pits of hell burning in her eyes.

‘Get that bloody balloon out of your bloody mouth right bloody now!’

She had a wonderfully poetic approach to everyday language, my mother.

'Do you know what?’ she continued in her beautiful sing-songy voice. 'Do you know what? I once knew a little boy who did exactly what you’re doing now! He was chewing on a balloon! That's right! Chewing on a balloon, just like you’re doing! And d’you know what happened next? Do you?'

I said that I didn't.

' Well, he swallowed it! He swallowed it, and he couldn’t breathe! The balloon cut off his air supply and he died! He died, just like that! Do you want that to happen to you? Eh? Do you?'

I had to admit that I didn’t want that to happen to me. I didn’t want that to happen at all.

#

That night, lying in bed, I started to dissect my Mother’s story. Several things bothered me. Primarily, if she’d been standing there as this unfortunate boy choked on his balloon, then why hadn't she done something about it? Called an ambulance, shouted for help, pulled the balloon out of his throat, for God’s sake? 

Was my Mum technically a murderer?

I was so bothered by this possibility that it took me almost two and a half minutes to get to sleep

#

A year or so later, a similar incident planted the seed of doubt in my already suspicious mind. We were driving along, on a wonderfully hot summer’s day. I had the window rolled down, and my head sticking through the gap to greet the force of the breeze. My mouth was open, my eyeballs were bulging, my hair was flailing wildly, my tongue was flapping in the breeze, and I was loving every minute of it.

I was just starting to wonder whether Labrador would be a viable career choice, when the car pulled over and came to a grinding halt.

' What the hell do you think you’re doing? Good God, you must have a death wish!'

I didn’t have a death wish. At least not before the car had stopped. Now I wasn’t too sure.

'Do you know what? Eh? Do you know what?'

I said that I didn’t.

‘I once knew a little boy of around your age. He used to stick his head out of the window like that! And do you know what happened to him? Eh? Do you know what happened?'

Again, I said that I didn’t. Although I had a terrible suspicion it’d be something highly unpleasant.

'He was going down the motorway one day, with his head out of the window, just like you, and a big truck came past and chopped it right off! And is that what you want? To have no head? To have nowhere to put your baseball cap or your sunglasses?!'

I most definitely didn’t want that. I had a nice pair of sunglasses and it would have been a terrible waste.

#

That night, I lay awake wondering what it might be like to lose my head.       

I supposed that I might get used to it eventually. There'd probably be a couple of weeks when I’d have to apply antiseptic cream to my necky stump every morning. It was also likely that I’d have to keep the duvet from touching it at night.

It’d probably be quite tender, like when I’d grazed my knee a few weeks before.

#

Several months later, I was hard at work in the back garden, brandishing a home-made wooden sword, and trying to convince myself that I was He-Man - the rippling muscles, the long flowing locks, the sado-masochistic dress sense; a fine role model for any impressionable young boy.

My imagination had been working exceptionally well that day. I'd fought bravely against the hordes of evil forces, the fearless and faithful Battle-Cat never leaving my side. It was now almost certain that I was finally on the path to becoming a fully-fledged Master of the Universe.

I was just getting to a particularly vital part of my quest, to save Eternia from the evils of Skeletor, when I tripped over my own feet, and fell.

Right on top of an anthill.

I realised what was happening in approximately zero point seven micro seconds, and leapt to my feet, screaming. Running towards the house, I ripped off my shorts and started to brush hundreds of bloodthirsty ants from my precious private parts.

My activity was interrupted by my mother, who, having seen me perform something that looked closely related to a lewd act, had come rushing out into the garden.

‘What in the name of God’s sandals are you doing?’ she politely enquired.

I couldn’t answer. I was too busy. I looked up at her, my face contorted by worry and pain. My nether regions were being invaded and I didn’t have the manpower to defend them.

‘Do you know what? Eh? Do you?’

I said that I didn’t, but I think that I probably did.

‘I once knew a little boy who played with his willy too much. About your age, he was. And then one day, do you know what happened? Eh? Do you?'

I shook my head.

' Well, I’ll tell you what happened, my boy! It fell off! That’s what happened! His willy fell right off! How would you like that? Eh? No willy?’

I grimaced with sheer discomfort. At that particular point, ‘no willy’ seemed like a pretty good prospect.

‘Don’t pull faces either,’ she said. ‘That same little boy was always pulling faces too! And do you know what happened to him? Do you?’

I didn’t want to know anymore, but I shook my head, all the same.

'One day, the wind changed direction and his face got stuck! Stuck in a big stupid frown, it was! And you don’t want that, do you? No willy and a big, stupid frown twenty-four hours a day!'

I said that I didn’t, but I wasn’t sure. I had other things on my mind.

#

I lay in bed that night, looking at the ceiling, and thinking about my Mother’s amazing ability for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Was it just coincidence, I asked myself, that my Mother had been involved in at least four very bizarre and very serious incidents, all involving small children? Or was it something more? Something dark. Something sinister.

I vowed that from that day forward, I would leave no stone unturned in my quest for the truth.

#

It’s now twenty years later. I’m a fairly well-adjusted adult, married with a small child. My Mother, however, is serving the first of three consecutive life sentences. My investigations uncovered a grizzly truth that shocked and chilled me to the marrow. A truth so foul, so disgusting, so sick, so evil, that I could not bring myself to write it on this page.

Let me just leave you with this thought. I’m going to my local pub when I’ve finished writing this. The landlord is a very good friend of mine. I’ve known him for about ten years now, and we’ve grown quite close.

His name is Bob. He’s married, with no children, and has a very expensive five bedroom house, with a wonderful view of the countryside.

He also has a constant, fixed frown and no willy.