The Face at the Window

When good moms do bad things by Robert Dean

I hovered over them, my babies.

Jack, my beloved and precocious little boy and Hillary, my angel. No two greater living joys than these little wonders.

I watched them sleep. I loved to see their smiles, as they are lost deep into incredible places I’ll never go. I brushed their cheeks and hair, whispering to them how much they meant to me. I have the sweetest children any mother could wish for. I am truly so lucky to have children like these. My entire reason for being alive was to be a mother, a good mother. I longed to give life and raise a family of my own.

When Jack was born, I cried and cried. A  heart had never known a love so real and true. My whole life had led up to that moment, and after I heard his first cries, I knew I was home with motherhood. When his little body was in my arms, I held him close because he was so delicate and stunning. My husband, Eric is a provider and a loving father. He is always doting on me and making sure the children were always taken care of.

Jack was his pride and joy. His little man who would one day lay under cars with him or go fishing, typical guy stuff. He relished when they would go out into the yard and play catch. He loves being a daddy. As much as he loves his son, there’s no one who is a bigger princess than my daughter. Hillary, she runs this house, and she knows it. She is the apple of her daddy’s eye. Whatever the little princess wants, she gets, if her father has anything to do with it. He truly is an extraordinary man. He adores me. He can make any woman feel like she is the queen of the world, and his queen is always me. Even after all this time. We met just after high school. I was in my first year of Community College (interior design), and he was an apprentice carpenter in the local union (65K starting). We met through some friends one night out at a house party. We hit it off pretty quickly. He took me on a few dates, and before you knew it, we were in love.

He swept me off my feet, and we’ve never looked back since. We’ve had a terrific life. Eric makes serious money while I keep him happy as I can. I didn’t have to work and get to be a stay at home mom and it made me happier than anything. I manage to raise my kids, and it feels exciting to know that I’m seeing them becoming little people in front my eyes.

Sure, we cut a few corners here and there, but in the end, I  raised my children instead of a babysitter. Every day, we took strolls to the park, had lunch on the beach or went to the zoo. We saw all the museums in town.  We had play dates with all my girlfriends’ kids, and we all had so much fun.

We have it all. The beautiful house in suburbia, the nice SUV, and a perfect white picket fence kinda life. We’ve got the perfect little family. Jack is on the soccer team. Little Princess Hillary is a ballerina. I am truly blessed.

I watched them all sleep happily, my little family. I padded throughout the house, in the wee hours as I always had done. I’m a night owl. I’m always the last one awake. Sitting at the edge of our bed, I stared while Eric rolled between the covers. He snored softly, his chest rising and falling under the weight of his lungs.

So peaceful and happy, I love watching him dream just as much as I do the children. I wish I could sleep like the rest of my family, only I don’t sleep to dream.

My eyes studied him; I wondered what he could have been dreaming about?

I kissed him on the forehead, and he tussled around and said I love you, even while lost in a world of sleep. I placed the barrel of the pistol against his forehead and stared at him further. Imagining what he would say if he were to wake up, but I didn’t want him to wake up. I liked him asleep. I liked him not knowing, innocent.

I tickled the trigger and stared down the barrel, into his hairline. The weight of the gun was heavy in my little hands. The bullets sat inside the chambers waiting to smooch his forehead with their violent lipstick kisses. I want to pull the trigger.

Shaking, I pulled the gun away from his head. I rubbed the cold steel against my face and sniffed the gunpowder inside the barrel.

Placing it in my mouth, I felt cold steel against my tongue as I bit down. My lips wrapped around it like the thickest the thickest cock in the world.  It felt so momentous and powerful. I began to fellate the barrel. I could feel myself growing wetter as I sucked the blue steel like it was the juiciest cock in the world. All the way down deep throating it. Tears slid down my face as I sucked it hard enough to the six chambered death machine cum bullets. I began to stroke myself as the gun still lay inside my mouth.

Faster and faster, my hands worked as I explored my pussy. I continued to take the pistol lower and lower down my throat. Reaching orgasm, I gave out little moans as my hips shook and swayed. My hand was full of my sticky cum. Pulling the gun out of my mouth, it rested on my lap while I came back down to earth.

I began to think about what it would be like if I placed the barrel against his head and pulled the trigger again. His brains splattered all over the white linen high thread count bed sheets. I’m sure some of him would splatter back onto my floral nightgown and face, where I would stand zombie eyed, admiring my handiwork.

My loving, perfect husband lying in a pool of his own blood, our bed defiled, turned into a murder scene. I start to cum again. I want to fuck him right now. I can see his lifeless body lying headless, and it excites me. One pull of the trigger.

I’d wander around the house as the kids woke up from the large BANG!

They would see Mommy covered in Daddy’s blood and start to cry.

Picking them up in each arm, I’d walk them over to show them the mess Mommy had made. They would see Daddy’s brains spilled everywhere and cry harder.           

Their tears would make my nipples hard as they hid their faces into my shoulders, crying hysterically. I’d tell them it would be all right. Setting them down, I tell them to watch Mommy as I place the barrel of the gun in my mouth again and pull the trigger.

My body falls immediately to the ground, and all the fluids inside  begin to leak out below me. My children stand frozen, screaming, both parents lie dead in front of them.

Every day I fantasize. Every day, I dream.

Yesterday, I was at lunch with a few girlfriends at this quaint little bistro. I wore a pair of jeans that made my ass look fantastic and a cute black top I’d bought a few weeks back. I wore my favorite sling back heels. I’ve gotta admit it, I looked stunning. We all had soups and salads for lunch; I had the broccoli and cheddar and a cob Salad.

While the others talked and caught up on the local gossip, I sat lost in a world of my own wild thoughts. I didn’t see made up faces. I saw muscles stained with Botox. Sitting around me were feminine skulls made up with red lips and gloomy eyes.

I watched them speak, but heard nothing but gibberish. I watched them spoon mouthfuls of shit into their hanging jaws. The sight of their enjoyment disgusted me under my palatable grin oozing complete emotional forgery. I couldn’t ever consider seeing a shrink. That would be the death of me.

Driving home, I passed over a large bridge I’ve driven over a million times. Every time it’s the same. I couldn’t take my mind off of what it would be like to take a family drive, over that bridge. Fatally submerging into the deep, cold water. All four of us flying into the abyss. Our souls together forever, death couldn’t separate us, no matter how hard it tried. We’d all be there as a family.

That night I hid away in my room, lost in the pages of my book. I couldn’t deal with the family tonight, so I had to hide. Eric, that glorious man took over as caretaker, and watched the kids. To ease my mind, I popped a few Trazadone to keep me calm. Sometimes, I need them to try and get any rest.

After getting an hour or two of sleep, I awoke to make sure Eric was ready for work with his lunch packed. Peanut butter and Jelly. Eric’s favorite. Sometimes the kid inside never grows up. I stood at the counter slicing the bread; I watched the blade, sharp as could be. It felt yummy in my hands. Leaning against the edge of the sink, I began to slide the edge of the blade along my body.

Little, invisible hairs fell as the sharpness shaved them off. The sharpness of the blade sent shivers down to the tips of my toes as I slid the blade across my nipples.

I could hear Eric coming down the stairs, and immediately I resumed my usual routine.

Kissing me goodbye, I patted him on his behind as he put on his cap and headed for the door. The garage door closed. I let out a deep sigh of relief.

The kids would be up in a few hours. Till then, I took the liberty of cleaning the house.

Our dog Baxter watched me from the couch while I paraded around the house singing my favorite Bette Midler songs.

I could hear the children starting to stir in their bedrooms. Soon enough, the house would be alive with the sound of kids. I brewed myself a delightful cup of vanilla roasted coffee and watched the random mailmen and package delivery guys come and go. Around ten o’clock, my stories were on. I love my stories and have no plans on missing them. The kids were up for about an hour by now. Happily, they giggled and played.

I had to keep them quiet, and today they were extra rambunctious.

Giving them each a cup of juice, I peppered their drinks with a crushed up Xanax, I subdued them into a shaded form of children.

Quietly, they sat and played with one another while Mommy enjoyed her afternoon.

After the pills wore off we all sat down for a lunch of Ham and Cheese, with the crust cut off, of course. The kid’s favorite. I had half a sandwich and a diet coke with a few splashes of Bacardi to keep my day running smoothly. I pop a few of the Xanax myself; I like how they make me feel. My skin tingles and the kid’s laughter rings through my body, not in my ears. The rest of the day passes by as I prepare dinner for everyone: a tasty tuna casserole with potatoes and French bread.

I have three glasses of wine with my dinner. Naturally, Eric has a few beers. After dinner and the kids are in bed, Eric and me settle into our bedroom. The TV flickers infomercial in the distance as we begin to make love. We engage one another under the dull sounds of how the government has millions ready for you if you know how to take them. I let him overtake me. I beg him to use me.

I cannot visualize his face, even though he is on top of me. Moaning into my ear and touching me, I cannot see him. I can feel him inside of me, sliding in and out.

My mind falls back out of reality. I see him differently as he grabs my flesh.

I become death, visualizing his head blown off as I had last night.

His eyes rolled far back into their sockets, his mouth hanging loose.

Now, I am starting to enjoy his body. I feel his nipples and begin to pull on them as he continues to thrust himself deeper inside of me.

I wrap my legs around him as he throws me around the bed; with my eyes closed I only see his cold, white face. I imagine we’re rolling around in his blood and brains.

I can feel his fluids all over my body, the wet stickiness covering me as my dead husband fucks me. I think about his wake and seeing him inside his casket.

The funeral home is a nicely decorated property with a large room to gather and aromatic flowers are everywhere.

His skin is cold and pallid; I touch his cheek with certain numbness as I overlook him.  His nice, and pressed suit looks fabulous as the whole family hovers over him as they weep.

“He always did look wonderful in that black suit.”

 I hear the same thing from their mouths: “They did a good job on, him. He looks at peace.”

My partner of fifteen years, lying cold as ice; I want to crawl into the coffin and fuck him in front of the whole lot of them. Just as he fucks me now.

I begin to feel my body tingle. I am almost the point of no return. I think about people giving tearful hugs, staring at the coffin, wishing it wasn’t so. All this while I stand there in my stylish black dress and matching shoes, dabbing tears from my mascara stained cheeks. I look sensational doing my best impersonation of Jackie O, and it shows.

Silently, I judge what everyone is wearing as a means to justify how much Eric meant to them. I think about lowering his casket into the earth and all those who came to the funeral, throwing that little clump of dirt on top.

I begin to wildly orgasm. He thinks it’s because he’s doing a superb job; he’s not. His body speeds up as I moan and scratch his back in animated ecstasy. His sweaty body falls on top of mine, both of us reaching climax. For a second, I rub his back as the room comes back into recognizable view. Catching my breath, I make him move his sweaty, carnal husk off mine.

I head straight to the shower. I hate walking around covered in sweat or even worse, sleeping in it. Washing my hair, I begin to lather my body and rise myself with all of my fancy soaps. Our shower has six nozzles to reach all of the nooks and crannies on your body. When I come out of the shower, Eric is passed out.

Pulling the blanket over him, he snuggles up in a ball.

I smile at him and turn the channel hoping to find a Golden Girls re-run.

Another night in my house, god only knows what will happen next.

Bonnie Dormant by Anne Stormont 

It’s my party and I’ll die if I want to. Yeah, yeah, they warned me about alcohol and drugs. Had all the talks at school. But I know what I’m doing. I can handle it. And anyway, life sucks.

    It’s not like the party was my idea. It was arranged ages ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if my parents have been planning it since I was a baby.

    And what’s with the guest list? All these ancient relatives – all twelve aunties invited. I know the old dears have been good to me – the gifts, the money, the trust fund, the endless advice. ‘We love you Bonnie. You’re our little Princess.’  Hello, no – I’m not!

    Between them and the parents I have no freedom at all. They just want to fence me in. I can’t go anywhere or see anyone without them interfering. ‘Where have you been? You can’t go there. You can’t do that.  You can’t wear that. We just want to protect you.’ Yeah, right.

    And what’s with the ban on Auntie Treiza? The way they talk about her – like she’s some evil old witch. It all goes back to my christening. They say they forgot to invite her and she got upset and they all fell out over it. But I’m not stupid. I’ve heard them talking about her, about how she’s no good. She got in touch on Facebook – wanted to meet me. And she’s really cool – not an old witch at all. She’s got a great apartment and wicked stuff. She lets me smoke and drink and she can get you any kind of gear – whatever drug you want.  She got me to try some said they were fun, made you feel good, said she wouldn’t  tell the parents. She’s even given me stuff for my mates – as long as they pay me and I pay her – I can have mine for free. And they do make me feel good – well they did – some of the time.

    I just hope Mum hasn’t invited nerdy Neil to this party. Just because we were friends in primary school – that was then. I wouldn’t be seen dead talking to him now. If I’m not alone when he approaches I just blank him. None of my mates know we used to be friends. God, I hope they come and he doesn’t and that we can sneak away.

     Neil knows about the drugs. He got me on my own. Told me I’d end up dead, that I’d become like a zombie – as if I was asleep all the time. I got really angry, told him to eff off. But no matter how much I try to avoid him, no matter what barriers I put up, he finds a way through. He says he’s determined to save me, knows people who can help. He says he’s my friend and I do kinda miss him but… It’s too late now, isn’t it?

    I can hear people starting to arrive downstairs. My mother calls up to me. But I’m so tired and it all seems so pointless. I pick up the needle from my bedside table. I lie on the bed, push the needle into a vein. As I fall asleep, I hear Neil calling my name.

3 Responses to The Face at the Window

  1. ‘When Good Moms do Bad Things’ by Robert Dean – Painfully true – the potential for self-destruction and detachment that is part of our human nature is graphically portrayed here. A disturbing, honest, original take on the flawed notion of a fairytale existence. Happiness here is a serpent – a life with no challenge offers no contentment or peace. Happy ever after is a poisoned chalice. Excellent ‘beware’ story.

    ‘Bonnie Dormant’ by Anne Stormont – who? Modesty forbids… 🙂

  2. Andy says:

    Bonnie Dormant – A tale with a point, but the point isn’t pushed; instead it is allowed to float between the lines. I like this.

  3. Thanks, Andy very pleased you liked it.

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