They say that a boy's best friend is his mother. She often says: 'the world outside is a jungle'; it is unruly and punishing place where a meek lamb -like myself -can never survive as the fittest. For that reason, Mother keeps me penned inside my room, to which I soon adapted myself to. There is a certain charm to the room that bars my inner curiosity about the jungle outside and bars me from disobeying Mother. I would not want to do that. The thin beam of light that is normally admitted through the small gap between the edge of the coarse, uncultured curtains and the casing of the Victorian bay windows, gives notice to the minor patches of peeling paint on the unsoiled walls. I promise Mother I will soon repair that.
Caged within the sweet, viscous balminess that fuses with the honeyed rosiness of Mother's perfume, I often lay on the piquantly smelling carpet that sprawls over the floor whilst Mother, sitting on her rocking chair, recites the tales of the' malicious creatures', as she would call them and the secularity of consorting with these enemies. She rocks back and forth, as her shrill but motherly voice echoes across the room. She rocks back and forth as her pitch rises with her spite. She rocks back and forth as she watches me obediently nod when she commands for my agreement. Whilst I listen, my eyes are drawn to the corner where the walls and ceiling converge; it is always glazed by faded streaks of light where the tiny dust motes hover. They are reminiscent of the wisps of grey in my Mother's uncombed hair, frail like the wings of a dragon-fly. Her delicate locks just manage to reach the sequins -on her lustrous, tan opal dress - embedded around her waist; for over ten years she has continually been wearing that dress and now I mention it, it is quite the peculiar thing.
Women are malicious creatures. Wallowing in the murky, unclear waters of desire, they wait for innocent youthful minds to prey on.