Spiders

Look, I'm here for a reason. And I'm not talking about some spiritual crap, I'm physically in the place that I am for a reason. I don't blame myself, I blame my mother. She pushed me over the edge. She forced my hand. I would never have hurt her if she had just left well enough alone. I know what you're thinking, that I'm in prison writing this on a bathroom stall with my shit. You're wrong. I'm in a home with some crazy people who actually do write stuff on the walls with their shit, but none of it makes sense. I don't belong here. I should have received some sort of thank you, not been put on trial and forced to plead insanity. Yes, she's dead. I didn't technically kill her, I just let the spiders do it. My mother was collector of all things with six legs. She would walk around feeding them, talking to them, loving them. Doing things for them that she never did for me. A mother shouldn't love a spider more than her own son. She called me a mistake and told me she wished she never had me. It wasn't the first time, I'm usually pretty good at ignoring what she says. That day was different.

So here I am in my white robe with my white slippers, sitting in a room full of insane people playing checkers and cards by themselves, looking for crickets in the corners of the room so they can get that little bit of extra protein. I sit here and I watch them. None of them interest me, except for one. She looks like her; my mother. I imagine she is quite normal and is here for some ludicrous reason, like me. Beautiful and slightly broken, just like me. We've only ever talked in my daydreams, but I know all of this is true.

I sit here and I watch her. I watch her beautiful black hair sway as she moves. I watch her stare off into the distance and I know she's thinking of me. I watch her and I can't help but see her completely covered in spiders.