In Laymon's Terms

Soon caught up in his newfound ebullience, Leonard barely noticed the days slipping by. Another week came and went like a blur, and Leonard found himself actually viewing the onset of the weekend, and the resulting loss of interaction with other people, with disappointment, a shocking discovery in view of the fact that he had formerly eagerly awaited the two-day respite. The only thing he was looking forward to this weekend was finally removing the impressive assortment of padlocks that were still adorning the cellar door. He hadn’t a clue where Mother had put the keys, but he was now the proud owner of a top-of-the-line set of bolt-cutters, and those would most certainly do the trick. Truth be known, Leonard held out faint hope that some of his old comic books might still be down in the cellar, shoved back in a cobwebby corner.

Whistling his way out through the revolving doorway and into the sunny late afternoon, he felt a twinge of jealousy as he watched a clique of co-workers head off rowdily with cries of “happy hour.” So moved was Leonard, in fact, so full of his new carefree, jocular attitude, that he came to the momentous decision to go out on the town himself that evening.

Moving in random spurts through the herds of cars that jostled through two- and three-lane chutes, Leonard mulled over his evening’s destination, sampling random club names from those he had heard mentioned by others at work. “McMullens, I think,” he crowed to his empty Fiesta, “or maybe Uncle Ernie’s!” Buoyed by his effusive new attitude, Leonard took little notice of the bothersome traffic, and was home before he knew it.

Having decided upon Dapper Dan’s as his destination—at least initially, and after that, who knows, he might even go bar-hopping—Leonard pursed his lips now in consideration of what to wear on his coming-out night. Trying vainly to visualize an acceptable mode of dress from the meager, outdated selection hanging in his closet, Leonard entered the house (his house now, he reminded himself) and was halfway across the living room before the word insinuated its way into his head, causing his jolly whistle to wither and die upon his lips.

“Leonard.”

If Leonard hadn’t relieved himself prior to leaving work, he would have wet his pants at that moment, guaranteed.

“How nice of you to come home to take care of your poor, sick mother,” came the voice, muttered fleshily, as though through lips numb with Novocain.

As Leonard turned, the key ring slipped from his hand, jangling as it struck the hardwood floor and echoing the tortuous strumming of his every nerve ending. In the shadow of the kitchen doorway—a shadow too deep to exist this early in a summer afternoon, a shadow that bore a stench of rotting carrion—there, there stood Mother.

Or more accurately, there hunched Mother, her upper body twisted forward and sideways at a crazy angle, the etchings of Leonard’s handiwork plainly visible on her flesh. No miracle had recombined her various parts from beyond the grave, no sudden deific act had assembled her wholly and artistically; rather, it appeared to Leonard as though the sundry bits and pieces of Mother had burrowed and wormed their way up through the soggy ground, squirming together like lustful lemmings, attaching themselves to their neighbors as best they could. In places the reformation was impressively accurate, marred only by still-healing angry scars and clumps of drying mud, in other spots the job was more...haphazard, as though reconstructive surgery had been performed by a blind man with hooks for hands.

“What are you staring at Leonard? Come closer, let me kiss you, like a good mother should. I’ll introduce you to some of the friends I met in the earth.”

Leonard thought he had known despair before in his life, but now he learned the true meaning of the word. His worst fears realized, he stumbled backwards, knowing with the inevitability of the damned that he was staring straight into the gaping, gap-toothed mouth of his downfall.

Terror and desperation saturating his mind, he attempted to turn and run, but flight was denied him, as he felt an icy-cold shroud envelop him, glaciating him in mid-step. Slowly, against his will, against the efforts of his still-straining muscles, he felt his body twisting into a position that any contortionist would have viewed with admiration. Leonard’s head bent backwards in a position so painful, so physically impossible, that he found himself listening, straining to hear the sound of his own neck breaking. Mother watched impassively, chewing on a bit of her cheek.

“I don’t know what to do with you Leonard. You disappoint me so. After your father and sister proved to be such failures, you were my last hope.”