The Lake (362 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.78 on 8 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by <kettlejug.at.hotmail.com> (View user info) at 2006-04-23 22:53:17 EDT
It is often said that the truth can absolve all guilt, and thus I tell you my story. At the time I was living with my mother in a Manor on the farthermost side of Stone Lake. Across the lake sat the village, known simply as the Lake Village.
My mother was not a cruel woman, but she was not an easy woman to please. I spent my time playing to her every whim, my days filled with her needs. She was a woman who demanded respect, but not love, for this was something for which she had no desire. Some would say she was cold, but I saw the pleasure she took from little things, finely woven stockings, or an expensive Italian table lamp. For these were the things she desired; material possessions, things which reflected and promoted her own grandeur, her sense of self.
She had a love of fine things, a love that was perhaps a little greater than her means could provide. She carried an aura of elegance, not commonly seen in these modern days, which veiled her underlying self love. Indeed there was almost nothing she loved more than to stare into her glass, reflecting on her own passing beauty. For she had been a beauty, to which no other could compare.
In the village she was seen as an enigma; a women alone, rich, even haughty, yet somehow vulnerable, isolated alone across the lake, with only the servants and, recently, her strange, grown son for company. I had been away, for many years, leading a life of my own, when she had called me home. Of course I had come almost immediately, her summons calling me back, leading me forwards.
I had taken mere days to sell my up my possessions, leave my job, farewell the seedy, unclean women who had been my only company in that dark town, leaving to return to the utopia of my childhood by the lake. Yet, had it not been for the summons of my mother I would never have returned to the house by the lake, only through her will could I go back.
As I came to the house, approaching the opposing facade of the extravagance, I knew that my mother was not as she had been. Still there was the daunting power of her presence, her manners as impeccable as ever, yet she was somehow diminished, smaller and weaker, like a burnt brown leaf that I could crush in the palm of my hand. Her conceit and pride remained but I knew she did not rule me like she once had.
I held the power in my hand, though I let her believe what she would. As she once ruled me, now I let my dominance rest upon the house, skulking in the background, an oppressive power that weighed heavily upon the household. The servants learned to turn to me with their questions, just as they had once turned from me, the lady's boy, her doting son.
Now, returned to my mother's home, by the big cold lake I saw myself as a young boy, scrawny, unloved, yet held in a powerful grip, unable to escape the gravity of my mother's aura. As the heavy heat of the summer faded into the crisp, clearheaded breath of autumn, I saw more clearly the darkness of my mother's soul. She was not the arrogant, prideful old women, unable to let go of her youth, that I had always expected of her.
Here she was calling me to her, expecting me to wait on her hand and foot, her little slave again. But I was not that little boy anymore. No longer did she have my undying childlike devotion, yearning for a mother's love. Now I had my own power. I felt it, tasted it, like a little ball curled into the pit of my stomach. Now she was little more than a crumpled old hag; the youthful siren, the seductress of my youth was gone.
So, as that thoughtful autumn air tempted hinted at the coming winter, I knew that I had to make amends for her tainted soul. The city had taught me well, I knew that I must plan carefully, that I could not rush my cleansing.
One night as the maid carried up her tray, I accosted her, sending her on some fruitless task, offering to carry the tray up to my mother. I sat by her bed while she ate, and as she drifted into the velvety blanket of sleep. The poison worked fast, she was asleep in minutes, a deep sleep, like the sleep of the dead. Yet she was not dead, for I was no coward, no mere women, to kill with the fruit of the mandrake.
I bundled her body up in the bed clothes and carried it down the back stairs. From there it was only a short walk down to the sandy beach by the lake, where the summer row boats lay, pulled now up the beach for the coming winter. I pulled a boat out into the water and gently placed the body of my mother in the bottom. I rowed out onto the lake, then sat waiting for her to awaken.
The night air was chilling, biting at my skin, and I felt her stir at my feet. Quickly I gather the coiled rope from the bottom of the boat and tied her hands and feet. Then as her eyes fluttered open I tenderly helped her up. She tried to speak, to question me, but the tightly tied gag prevented her. I smiled at her kindly, reflecting on the women who had ruled my life, kissed her gently, then pushed her over the side of the boat. She struggled at first, but as the icy water of the lake filled her lungs, stinging her delicate skin, her body stilled and sunk beneath the surface of the lake.
I rowed the boat back to the shore, and carefully returned it to the line. The following morning, before the servants began their daily tasks I called them to the front room and instructed them that I would be taking my mother back to town with me to receive doctor's care, and that their positions would be needed no longer. I was not unreasonable, giving then two weeks extra pay, and informing them that they were to leave the house immediately.
Returning to town I fell back into my old life quickly, the hotel owners and beautiful ladies welcomed me graciously. The world seemed bright and clean, and I knew that know one suspected that there was anything amiss surrounding the location of my mother. About midwinter, when I knew the lake would be frozen over I returned to the village, claiming to be returning to collect some of my mothers belongings from the house.
In the village I was told a story of how, over the last winter, many of the village children had claimed to have seen faces in the ice while out skating. Many times, the grocer told me, had the men been out to look, but had seen nothing. "The Old Manor Witch, they call her." He said. "We're thinking of dredging the lake come spring."
User Reviews
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2006-04-24 14:50:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by sparkle_pink (user info) at 2006-04-24 05:24:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Really well written. Great story. I agree with the abrupt ending though.
Submitted by KindaNews (user info) at 2006-04-24 04:24:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by inion_de_trua (user info) at 2006-04-24 02:27:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
1.5 for the abrupt ending. liked it though.
Submitted by inion_de_trua (user info) at 2006-04-24 02:27:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-23 23:47:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Tom (user info) at 2006-04-23 23:24:30 (#)
Ranking: 2
It was well written and I liked it.
Submitted by Tom (user info) at 2006-04-23 23:24:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
It was well written and I liked it.
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-04-23 22:59:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Good but not my particular cup of tea.