A Little Conversation With My Dead Mother

Her: I know what you wrote about me in that blog.

I see dead child abusers...they don't even know they're dead. Or that they can't hurt anyone any more.

I see dead child abusers…they don’t even know they’re dead. Or that they can’t hurt anyone any more. But then again, I don’t seem to know it either.

Me: Yeah, so?

Her (discorporeal eyes widening and jaw tightening in that threatening way):  I am really, really, REALLY mad at you, mouth-with-legs.

Me: What are you going to do about it? You can’t hurt me. You’re dead.

Her (threateningly): Well, I’m going to do something bad to you. Something really, really bad. Something so bad you couldn’t possibly even guess what it is. I might even kill you, you ungrateful little bitch. I wish to God I’d miscarried you when Daddy threw me down the stairs.

Me: Oh, is it going to be the whole death-threat thing again then, Mom? That old “you’re the cancer of the family and sometimes a cancer needs to be cut out to spare the good parts of the body” song-and-dance? Or will it be “if something bad happened to you and you died, I’d just tell the police what a bad little girl you were and they’d understand that I had to do it and they’d let me go, because no parent could possibly love you” bit?

Her: (silence…thank God)

Me: Go bug someone else, Mom. Go death-threaten another spirit or something, that ought to be a hoot. Better yet, just go into the Light already, or won’t It let you in, you freaking witch?


Good times. Sigh.

And I still feel afraid.

Note: I didn’t really think I was talking to my dead mother. I haven’t quite gone that far around the bend. Yet.


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