Guilt is a parasite that feeds on the heart, and mine is full.
I push open our front door at midnight on the dot, the weight of the evening hanging on like a soaked coat. My clothes still sll like Sabrina, her perfu, her sweat, the intimate scent of what we did together, but my mind has been miles away, locked in a house with white walls and a woman with white hair.
The TV bathes the living room in flickering blue light, casting Mom in silhouette on the couch. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt and cotton shorts, her hair pulled back in a ssy bun, nothing provocative, nothing designed to tempt . Just Mom being Mom, which sohow makes this harder.
She turns as the door clicks shut behind , those blue eyes brightening with recognition. "Hey, stranger," she calls, her voice warm and casual. "Right on ti."
"Hey," I manage, the single syllable feeling like gravel in my throat. I stand awkwardly in the entryway, keys dangling from my fingers, unable to move deeper into the house or retreat back outside.
Mom studies my face, her smile fading as she takes in whatever she sees there. She mutes the TV, the sudden silence deafening. "What’s wrong?" she asks, concern replacing her earlier lightness.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat refusing to budge. My fingers tighten around my keys until the tal edges bite into my palm.
"Nothing’s wrong," I lie, but the words feel empty even to .
As I stand there, mories of the night replay in my mind, Sabrina’s tender touches, her shy smiles, her genuine affection. She’d fallen asleep after our encounter, curled against like a cat seeking warmth. I should have felt content, accomplished even. Instead, I’d lain there staring at her ceiling, feeling an emptiness grow inside with each passing minute.
The longer I’d stayed, the more I’d felt myself disconnecting from the mont, from her. By the ti I’d carefully extracted myself from her sleeping form, kissed her forehead, and slipped out of her dorm, I wasn’t thinking about when I’d see her next. I was thinking about getting ho.
About seeing Mom.
"Can we talk?" I ask, finally stepping fully into the house, dropping my keys on the side table.
Mom straightens on the couch, concern etching lines between her brows. "Of course, baby. Always."
I move to the couch, sinking down beside her. My body feels heavy, like I’m carrying stones in my pockets. Mom shifts to face , tucking one leg beneath her, patient concern in her eyes.
"I think sothing’s wrong with ," I whisper, the confession tearing from sowhere deep inside.
Mom tilts her head, white wisps of hair falling across her forehead. "What do you an?"
I stare at my hands, watching them tremble slightly in my lap. The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I force them out anyway.
"I slept with Sabrina tonight," I say, my voice hollow. "And afterward, I felt... nothing. Just this emptiness. Like I was watching myself from outside my body."
Mom’s expression transforms in an instant. The maternal concern vanishes, replaced by sothing feral, possessive. Her lips curl back in a snarl that would be frightening if it weren’t so familiar.
"Oh, so you did fuck the little whore," she hisses, venom dripping from every syllable.
The strange thing is, I don’t even feel offended by her words. They slide off like water, unable to penetrate the numbness that’s settled over .
"Did you even last?" she demands, leaning closer, those blue eyes blazing with sothing dangerous and electric.
I nod slowly, eting her gaze without flinching. "I couldn’t finish for almost thirty minutes," I admit, the words tumbling out before I can reconsider. "And even then... I was only able to cum when I thought of you."
The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and ugly and true. Mom goes perfectly still, her breathing visibly halting for several heartbeats. Then, slowly, her expression transforms. The anger lts away, replaced by sothing triumphant and tender all at once.
"Oh, Gabriel," she breathes, reaching out to cup my cheek with her palm. Her touch is gentle, almost reverent. "My sweet boy."
I lean into her hand, starving for the contact in a way that terrifies . "What’s happening to , Mom?"
She shifts closer, her thigh pressing against mine as her fingers trail from my cheek to my neck, leaving fire in their wake. "Nothing’s wrong with you," she murmurs, her voice a silky caress. "You’re just discovering what you truly need."
"I don’t want this," I whisper, but even I can hear the lie in my words. "I don’t want to feel empty."
Mom’s fingers trace my jawline, her touch so gentle it makes my chest ache. "Do you feel empty when you’re with , Gabriel?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
The question hits like a physical blow. Tears well in my eyes, blurring her face into a pale smudge. I blink rapidly, trying to hold them back.
"No," I admit, the word scraping my throat raw. "But I don’t want to be... this. I don’t want to be the freak who, who has these feelings for his own mother."
A smile spreads across her face, not cruel but knowing, like she’s been waiting for this mont her entire life.
"Oh, sweetheart," she says, leaning closer until I can feel her breath against my lips. "You’re already the freak who plasters his mother’s panties with his cum. What’s a little more nudge in the degenerate direction?"
Her words should disgust , should make recoil, but instead, they send heat flooding through my veins. She’s right. I crossed that line years ago, the first ti I stole her underwear from the laundry basket, the first ti I wrapped the silky fabric around myself and pretended it was her.
Mom stands suddenly, holding out her hand to . "Co on."
For the first ti since this twisted dance between us began, I don’t hesitate. I don’t fight. I take her hand, letting her pull to my feet.
"Where are we going?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears, like it belongs to soone else.
Her blue eyes darken as she laces her fingers through mine. "We’re going to shower that whore’s sll off your body," she says, leading toward the stairs. "And then I’m finally going to claim what’s mine."
A last, feeble protest bubbles up from sowhere deep inside . "Cheating is wrong," I say, even as I follow her up the stairs, my feet moving of their own accord.
Mom pauses at the top of the stairs, turning to face . In the dim hallway light, her white hair glows like a halo around her face.
"Then break up with her tomorrow," she says simply. "But take tonight."
I feel sothing crack inside , so final resistance giving way. I know it’s wrong, I know Sabrina doesn’t deserve this. But I’m not strong enough to fight back anymore.
I am broken, but perhaps I’ve been broken all along. Maybe this forbidden union, this surrender to what I’ve always wanted but never dared claim, maybe this is the only way I’ll ever feel whole.
"Okay," I whisper, and it feels like jumping off a cliff.
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