A/N: Oh god, here I am again. This is aaaaaaaallll Vema's fault. So, thank her. As I think of it... not many people read my fics, so... whoever reads this, blame her. Inspiration struck me and wrote this down for her. So you're welcome, darling. I am also her muse, so suck it haters haha. Anywaaaaaay, hope you enjoy it!
The syrup cascaded down to his pancakes, coating it in a brownish sweet layer. As he watched the butter slowly melt, coming together with the syrup and fall around his food's edges, a small feminine finger came into his view. Said finger, surely belonged to his mother and at that, Norman did what he did best: watched his reason to breathe move around their kitchen.
Yes, she was his reason to be alive. After spending those ungodly hours inside that box and remembering everything he did, Norman couldn't just live with himself. He wanted to die, to disappear. So that's he did and while trying to kill himself in peace among the trees, she came to save him. At first, he ran away, thinking about his visions and screaming inside his mind that the one running after him was Mother and not his loved one. Not Norma, per se. Just a fucked-up reflection of her. So he ran and ran, tripping and falling, crawling his way through leaves and sticks. Her screams stopped him. Well, that and the major fall he took.
They fought for the gun; he ended with the damned object in his once clear hands. Now, every time he looked down, all he saw was bright red blood. His father's blood, Ms. Watson's blood. He couldn't cope with it. He was a bad person and made a point in saying so for his mother. She didn't believe him, coming closer and closer, touching his arms and neck and body until his resolve melted away. Her words killed him. There was fear, anguish and so much love. His mother loved him. Even when he was a monster, she loved him. She was his everything.
And as they looked into each other's eyes, foreheads touching, Norma came forward and with a tiny whimper, placed her lips on top of his. It was as quick as the wind blowing the tree's branches around, but Norman felt it deeply inside himself. There were other kisses, placed on his jaw, neck and ear but he couldn't care less. He wanted to kiss her again. To feel her lips on his again. Her soft, plump lips. It was like becoming addicted. One hit and you're fine, telling yourself you won't ever use it again when deep inside you know, it has become a part of you. A part you just can't let go. And Norman didn't want to let go, he wanted more. Just one more hit, he could take it. He would take it.
Positioning his face in front of hers again, nose to nose, he truly looked at her. Her hair was a mess, tiny pieces of woods sticking through it, never seen dirt marking her pale features as she heavily breathed in and out. And Norman just dived in, no fears and no doubts. This was his mother, what could possibly go wrong? He kissed her again, and with her surprised little sound – that didn't mean anything besides "Go on" – his tongue ran along her parted lips, meeting hers halfway. Their tongues played and stroked, becoming acquaintances in this new power game. It always was some kind of game between Norman and his mother. One of them would always get away badly hurt and things went unsaid, tension building as their explored new ways to connect.
And it all came down to this. Kissing his own mother.
He didn't know if it would be a sin in the eyes of what some people called God. But he knew it was a crime in their state. He just couldn't stop kissing her, making her release those breathy sounds that he swallowed whole. It was her who put a stop to it, her hands laying on his chest and pushing him away with a renewed strength. Norman was not surprised when she smiled and looked downwards. But she took his hand in hers anyways, planting a soft brush of her lips on her knuckles before taking him to their house.
And that was how he got here this morning, near to nervous break-down because he still had to face the polygraph and Norman knew he had killed Ms. Watson and that he would confirm so. He wasn't a coward. But his eyes lingered on his mother, moving from her hand that was currently in front of her face as she sucked her finger clean. He suddenly had a vision of her sucking on something else and it made him shiver. She was flawlessly dressed in a black skirt and black blouse, white little designs adorning it but he wasn't look at her to really pay attention to her blouse. Looked like sunflowers but he couldn't be sure. He was rather concentrated on what was covered beneath her blouse. Beneath her skirt. Promised land.
Norman may be a psycho and a troubled kid, but he was not completely so. He knew what he wanted when he saw it, and he saw his mother. He wanted her. His thoughts diverged to rabbits, rabbits and their mating season. He barely looked down at his plate again, seeing his mother sit down and release her finger with a barely audible pop. She looked at him, serious but eyes on fire, raising a porcelain cup between her pale hands. And just as she took a sip, eyeing him like a predator would, his resolve snapped once again. It was just like being into a state, but better. He would remember everything, sense everything. He was on control and hurting his mother would not be a useless worry in his mind. Norman Bates, for once, knew what he was fucking doing.