So Good At It
#4 of Short stories
Was in a bit of a mood so spoke with some friends and we found a prompt online that inspired us to write. The prompt was: "You don't strike me as a professional criminal". "That's what makes me so good at it."
My mother was not much of a talker. At least not a heavy one. A woman of few words and even fewer worries, she toiled away her day by reading books and writing her own. She never told me what was in it or why she wrote, only that she did and that one day I'd get why. Every day she came back home from work, she would kiss me on the forehead and tell me not to wipe off the lipstick mark she left behind. It was embarrassing but on those days, no one would come talk to me. Nobody. Especially the men that hung around the market down the street. They bothered so many others but never me.
One day I asked her what happened to Pa and she only sighed. Like always, she was quiet. She made dinner and when dinner was done she left to do her work upstairs. I didn't hear from her for the rest of the night.
Later that week my aunt had called and spoke with Ma. She spoke a language she told me never to speak in. I think it was... Polish? No! It was Hungarian. My dad was Hungarian so I guess Ma learned the tongue from him but... she never taught it to me. I saw her face was still kind, but her tone was anything but. I swear I could hear hissing. I got something about... Winter? Whatever. The two spoke all day before closer to the end I heard Mom's tone soften. She saw me on the couch and gave me a kiss on the cheek, apologizing for being distant.
On my birthday later that year, just as I was going to bed, I asked my mother again what happened to Father and she finally sat down and told me. She said...
"He was a man who loved his hatred
And hated his life
A man who saw nothing but red
A man whose hands were callused but not from work
A man whose smile was false like his promises
A man whose tone was cold as stone
A man whose breath was hot with curses
And a man whose tongue was wet with poison
And one day... The cold forced him to silence."
I didn't understand but she didn't repeat or elaborate and... I'm kinda glad she didn't.
When I was older, On my birthday too, I had a science test that dipped into forensics and one of the questions was: What would make the perfect murder weapon? I laughed and was unsure how to even answer so I asked my friends. I got a few answers, a Napkin, A butter knife, A needle, none of them really seemed to work out. When I got home my mother had a cake ready for me and was singing happy birthday. The cake was delicious. And then she told me stories about me as a baby. Some embarrassing ones, some hilarious ones, all fun ones. My birthday seems like the one day my Ma is without a filter. She even allowed me to sip a glass of wine though she limited me to just one. Last year it was champagne.
Later in the evening when I was doing my homework, I remembered the forensics question and went to ask Ma. Maybe she'd know. And she didn't seem too busy, just drafting down some stuff in her red book.
"Hey ma, what would make the perfect murder weapon?" Without missing a beat she answered me.
"An Icicle. Cause then it would just melt away. And if you wanted, you could just toss it into the lake and no one could prove how you did it cause no murder weapon." She gave me the most innocent smile afterwards. Like she just told me what the weather was. "I hope that helped." I laughed and wrote the answer down in my notebook. She walked over to me and looked over my shoulder to see my homework.
"Ha ha! Wow, not even a moment's hesitation. You'd think you'd have some experience with that. But you don't strike me as a professional criminal." She kissed my forehead and drew a smiley face in my notebook.
"Your father said the same thing. That's what makes me so good at it!" And she returned to her writing.