When I was small, no one would look at me for long. Their eyes would flick up, then flit away like a startled bird. I didn’t realize until I was about 6 that people found my looks… disturbing. There was a mixture of pity and revulsion teetering on a beam of required social behavior. Except for my Mother. She never shied away from looking. Her smile made me feel beautiful. She touched me as well, which other people seemed afraid to do. Of course, children were altogether different. They not only looked, they stared, mouths agape. They didn’t just touch, they poked and prodded… and sometimes chased.
It got so I craved my Mother’s eyes. Her gaze like a gift, a caress, that no one else would give me.
My Father had long since left us, and I was 23, when my Mother passed. I just couldn’t let her go. Because of my “condition” we lived a secluded life, so no one else was aware that she died. I still needed her gaze to feel normal, to feel loved. Propping her into a rolling chair seemed the best way to still have her see me. She was slight, so twine worked perfectly. When her eyes started to droop, sewing them open was easy.
When she started to rot, I really didn’t have a good solution. I kept her as long as I could, but eventually the smell and decomposition made the decision for me, and she’s now in a garbage bag in the back yard. Tied well against the wild critters.
Of course, I still craved the gaze of another, so finding a solitary hitchhiker seemed the most logical idea.
People feel sorry for me and don’t usually find me threatening. I aimed the gun so as not to mar up his face. He was the first, but has since joined my Mother along with five others.
I feel bad that it has to be this way, but that’s the way it turned out. I always remember to say thank you, and kiss them goodbye, before they join Mother in the yard.