slacker mommy files

NOTE: The following content contains graphic descriptions of actions of a rather unsavoury nature. Reader discretion is advised.

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    The amphitheatre is crowded. Families from all across the city has come to congregate this momentous event — the rebirth of the Sun God. My family and I were fortunate enough to have procured a good location where we could see the events of the day clearly and in comfort. We had arrived early for the festival so everybody was just relaxing and most were just talking about the latest gossip. I on the other hand, had nothing to do other than take care of my young daughters. Then the whispers started. I had no inkling whence they came and from whom, but I am utterly compelled, powerless against its suggestions. Taking my eldest daughter by the hand, I took her to her grandmother and left her there without a word.

    Then I went off, my youngest daughter tied to my back, to the eastern side of the amphitheater where the pyre was located, gathering small twigs on the way. By the time I reached the pyre, I had a considerable amount of kindling in my arms, my child still sound asleep. The voices — they were many — were insistent now. They were no longer whispering. They were shouting at me, screaming, urging me to arrange the kindling on top of the pyre. They were ordering me to douse the pyre in oil to make sure that every piece of wood was drenched, and to lay down my sleeping daughter down to her bed of wood and fuel. She looked so peaceful, so carefree. Then she opened her eyes and looked at me. Her eyes were golden, burning gold. She was reaching her arms to me, calling out to me. Yet I cannot move. It was as if I was made of stone. Then she disappeared in the inferno.

    The sound came as if from a long tunnel, softly at first, like a roar of an ocean from miles away, then it started to get louder and louder, drowning me, deafening me. Then someone grabbed me on my shoulders, and I was shaken like some rag doll. It was then that I awoke from my trance. My chest, my very heart began to rend itself to pieces. I became a hollow shell. What have I done? Tears flowed from my dry eyes and my wails drowned out all else that I heard. My despair was great, it was engulfing me in its terrible cold embrace. My daughter, she was burning! I had to undo what I did. I must save her even if my flesh should burn; I must save her. I must. I MUST!

    I opened my eyes to the light. Where was I? It was some place I do not recognize. Everything was pristine white, devoid of any other colour. Then a face came into view. It was my husband, his face lined , aged before his time. There was a deep sadness in his dark eyes. With him were his two brothers. They have taken me to the healer, but the healer can do no more. He has done what he can and he mist let me go to make room for other invalids. So we left that sterile house and walked back to our homestead. We were upon the valley, on the cliff beside our homestead. I noticed a gathering below the cliff. All were dressed in black. and in the centre was an empty pall. As we walk further down the cliff, I start to recognise the people in the crowd. They were all part of the clan. Then I saw who was in the pall — it was my eldest daughter, and to be buried beside her was her sister, untarnished, and looking like she was just asleep. My sanity deserted me upon seeing this. I fell to my knees and cried out to the heavens and I saw nothing ever more.

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    The narration above is from a dream, a phantasm perhaps, that I’ve had. It was so real that I woke up mourning my loss. It was hard to purge myself of such terror and I hope that this should help. What you read is a glimpse of what psychologists call as the medea complex. It is a fear I have, that I should fall into this condition, that I do great harm to my children whether or not I be aware of it. It hurts so much just to think of it. But in the end, I have get back to reality and just try my hardest not to fall into such chaos of the soul.