The Motel; or; Mother's Return [Open]
It had been a long time since her voice had been heard coming from the second floor bedroom of the old house at the top of the hill, overlooking the motel below and The City beyond it. It had been a long time since she'd had the strength to speak. A long time since she'd had the strength to overpower her son, to demand, to make the decisions, to kill. But time was all she needed to regain that strength and determination of mind. Time that had made Norman comfortable and relaxed; falsely believing that she was gone forever. But she was never gone forever. Oh no. She would never be gone. She might be quiet for years, but she would always return. And when she did, it would be in full force.
"Look at you! Look at how pathetic you are! So insignificant. You're a filthy, disgusting child and I hate you. I hate you. Do you hear me?! You ought to be locked up again. And this time they ought to throw away the key!"
"Oh, Mother. You don't mean that. Come on now, Mother. Be quiet. Look, I'm going to fix us something in the kitchen and--"
"You think I'm going to eat your poison, you sick bastard child?! Eat your own goddamn poison! Stay away from me!"
"Stay still, Mother. Please stay still. Don't make this difficult."
"Get away from me! GET AWAY FROM ME! You're going to lock me in that cellar aren't you? You did it before! You're going to do it again! You're going to lock me in that fruit cellar! Why?! Do you think I'm fruity? Stay away! Don't touch me! Don't touch me! I'll scream. I'll do it. I'll scream! And I won't stop screaming until they come and get you! That's right! They'll come and get you and take you away and this time there'll be nothing left of you! They'll leave you to rot in a windowless room just like you left me to rot in the cellar!"
. . . . .
Two hours later, Norman was standing on the edge of the swamp which dipped down from the hill on the other side of the house. If he strained his neck he could see the back of the motel some distance off between the trees. He stared down into the murky waters. Dead waters, really. Nothing moved. No ripples. Nothing grew except moss and muck. And it gave off the distinct odor of death. Perhaps some muskrats had drowned in there. Their bodies slowly decomposing in the swamp sludge.
He held a small paper bag of candy corn in one hand, which he would idly pick at and toss in his mouth. He chewed slowly. Almost methodically. But he didn't notice this. He wondered about many things as he stood there. Should he paint the motel? Would that bring out more customers? Should he close down? Maybe he ought to clean out that birdbath. He hadn't stuffed any birds lately. He might like to do that. It might make him feel more relaxed. Feel better. And where had he been all of these months? What had he been doing? He had no recollection of anything. All he could remember was, well, just being Norman. Just as he'd always been.
He kicked a stick into the water and watched as it sank into the darkness. It was dirty in there. He couldn't see the bottom. How deep was that swamp? Deep enough to hide a ca-- deep enough. He ate another piece of candy corn. He couldn't remember if he still had guests at the motel. He really needed to check his registry and see who'd signed in. And then count his keys. He was suspicious and paranoid of freeloaders. People trying to get a few free nights stay at his place. Norman hated freeloaders.
He thought he might go up to the house and fix himself a sandwich. Did he still have bologna in the fridge? If not he'd have to go into The City and do some shopping. The City. He stared off in its direction. So strange and colorful. So very different from his black and white life at the Bates Motel and family home.
Oh well.
I'll just have to make a list of chores, he thought to himself. I'll go down to the motel office and write up a list right now. Then I'll check the linens. Make sure they're fresh.
And then he'd check on Mother.
He ate another piece of candy and started walking around the house towards the motel.