Memories of Sin: Prologue

I lay awake in my bed, with the box fan on the stand just barely sending a breeze my way. Summer break was on its way, and I was conflicted about what to do. As a physics major, the chance to do a summer internship at a national lab was incredibly cool, it certainly beat my pre-existing plans of just fucking around and working retail to pay my rent till the next semester. Of course, the issue with this, was that I had to go home.

My hometown, if you can call it that, is pretty great. I wasn't raised in suburbia or a small town, I'm from a pretty large metropolis. My mom raised me alone as a single mother, and for most people, these are reasons enough to go home over the summer, never mind not having to pay rent for two and a half months, and getting to intern somewhere cool. But for me, this was the rough part.

If you came over to our house in my last few years of high school, nothing would have seemed so out of the ordinary. But a bit before that... things were kinda weird. I can't say I ever hated what went down in my life, or that I desperately craved those times, but... a part of me was left incomplete. Like I needed closure.

It was the summer before junior year of college, and I hadn't been home even once since I left after graduating, and it was eating me up on the inside. "Fuck it," I said, getting my phone from the nightstand. It was late at night, Mom must be sleeping. Still, I decided to call her, if not now, then I probably wouldn't do it tomorrow either. I didn't really know what I was doing, just that I had to say something. It took a few rings before she picked up, and my throat went dry, and my mind went back some years. Oh well, I can't cut the call now...

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Before a word could escape my mouth, before I could say anything at all to my mother, I thought about why I was calling her at all. There were things from my past that I had told almost no one, and for good reason.

You see, my father walked out on us before I was even born. My mother, bless her heart, worked hard to keep us afloat. 12-hour shifts, going hungry to feed me, she loved me dearly. She was also a bit like a metronome; her love was affectionate, and her anger was equally as intense. She rarely got angry with me, but I understood why whenever she did. Once I broke her favourite vase, a remnant of my father's former love for her. I used to make paper airplanes out of the bills and throw them around the house, and my mom couldn't find them, so we were often late on payments. Anyway, as I lay in my bed, I remembered the kinds of punishments she used to give me. She never really laid her hands on me, nothing like a slap, or a spank. I remember her kicking me. Sometimes pinning me under her. She would kick me to the ground and then grind her heel on my chest. Did it hurt? Perhaps a little, but I never cared. I could see the frustration, the pain, the annoyance in her eyes. So I never got angry.

Mom also had a bit of a drinking habit, which made her more quick to anger at times. It was around this time that, for some reason, I developed a fascination for her feet. I don't remember the exact age, but I remember her once grinding her foot on my face as punishment, and for some reason... I enjoyed it? It's like I hated it at that point, but I was surprised that I liked it. For a split second, I inadvertently licked her sole, and it was like everything clicked for some reason. It was at that moment that I knew, I liked licking my Mom's feet.

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Of course, as I mentioned, pretty much all of this died down over the years. Mom got sober-ish, and we went to therapy to move on from our lives. We came out stronger, better, more normal. Or at least that's what the therapist said. I guess we learned to suppress what happened. But I never forgot, and the memories ate away at me. I needed to talk to her about this, and as I heard my mom's voice on the line, my Adam's apple constricted my throat. What would I even say? Well, the time to take the leap of faith was here. Now or nothing...