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TITLE (EDIT)
My Other Mother |
DESCRIPTION
Very short story on my thoughts of adoption. Written in 10 minutes.
[619 words] |
TITLE KEYWORD
Literary Fiction |
AUTHOR
C Crawford |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Written while on an oil rig, after a 12 hour nightshift.
[December 2002] |
My Other Mother
C Crawford
I was 3 weeks old when i was taken from my Mothers arms. I like to think that i was gently prised from her beautiful tanned arms, while she screamed "my boy, my baby boy!".
I like to think that those tanned and toned forearms had fine blonde hairs on them which would glow in the sunlight, contrasting with the mahogany burnish of her gorgeous skin.
Perhaps i was whipped straight from between her legs, picking hairs from my teeth and thrown like a greased football to my new Mother, while my Birth Mother lit up another Marlboro.
I was never breast fed of course, hence i am not a tit man now. I like asses.
My Mother was 22 years old. I know this from a sheet of paper my adoptive Mother took from the hospital i was born in.That was nice of her.
The Mother whose belly i sat in for months, worked behind the perfume counter in a large department store. My Father was a Brickie, and does not know that he has a son walking the earth. Not this son anyway.
The next time you meet up with a member of your family, i want you to look at them.
And you say
"Hey ! You got the same eyes as me."
"I got my nose from my Mother."
"Thank God i didnt inherit my Fathers tiny dick."
Etc
Etc.
Its nice isnt it?
You know, what i wouldnt give to look at some people around me and be able to pick off the features that are similiar to mine, To see where my straight nose came from. The slight downturn at the end. To see who my blue blue eyes came from. Thanks whoever you were!!
I cant do what you take for granted.
I have a distant memory, a dream, of being carried through a cold carpark at night, wrapped in a white bundle. Ive always had this memory.
I can see the cars lined up like rotten teeth and the rays from the streetlamps shooting out, like the ones you see on a good mushroom trip.
I know that its impossible for me to remember being 3 weeks old....
I even have 2 names. The name on my original birth cerificate is Stephen Bryce. Who is Stephen Bryce? What would have become of Stephen Bryce?
Wee Stevie Bryce.
The city where i was born has a reputation for slums and violence. Its a large, sprawling, industrial, grey city. The people are friendly until they headbutt you. Indeed, in my home city ,they call a headbutt- a kiss.
What if id stayed in the sweet, fragranced warmth of my Mothers arms. Too soon i would have rejected her safety, as all boys must do. Out onto the streets. Wee Stevie Bryce. What are you fucking looking at?
I can almost hear them calling me."Brycey, hey Brycey. Try some of this stuff!"
Or
"How! Brycey! lets go down the city centre and batter a few posh bastards for their cash."
Or
"Yeah Bryceys getting out in 6 months, will we throw a wee party???"
-nah.fuckim.
I know that i have 2 half brothers. Do they look like me? Are they clones of the half fictional and terrifying Brycey?
I wonder if they even know about me. Their brother. Their Bro.
Does my Mother sit and quietly cry on my birthday?
Id like to think she does. Just once a year. Not too much to ask. Tears of sadness? regret? hope?nostalgia???
I am not bitter. I hope she has never beat herself around the head over this.
And i dont feel that i have any issues concerning the way i was dropped into this World.
Except.
Would you believe that i find fine blonde hairs on a tanned forearm incredibly erotic on a woman? Would you believe it?
Like i said.
No issues.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2002 C Crawford |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
December 2002 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2014
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