His house grew muskier and muskier with each passing hour that turned into sluggish days that never seemed to end. The linens had all been changed, the mantle dusted, and everything else he can think of, from the dishes to adjusting the picture frames strung on the walls, by noon. He'd take a solitary walk around the grounds, glance at the highway with a watchful eye, clench his fingers together and ignore the pounding in his head.
Sometimes he'd scour through his bookshelf, palms sweaty as he pulled a book without a name away from the rest. She'd screech at him when he did, but half the time he'd be almost done and suffered his chastisement as he cleaned the bedroom up again, just as he always did, just as he always would.
Who's that, Norman? she would ask on that rare occasion that the gravel crunched. The noise was awfully unfamiliar.
"No one, Mother."
Don't lie to me, boy.
"I don't know who's there, Mother."
Don't go talking to her. She's a dirty whore.
"It might not even be a her," he would say back, but she always grumbled, and she was always right.
Dirty whores, the lot of them, she mumbled to him as blood ran down the drain.
"You didn't have to do that, Mother."
What you say to me, boy?
"You killed her-"
I didn't kill her! Stop making up stories, you nasty boy!
The longer he waited, the harder it would be to scrub the maroon color off his skin, caked on like the thick foundation she used to wear and stuck between the cracks of his hands. It was almost routine anymore. He often thought to himself it was the most color he'd seen in a while, and he giggled and tried to shut out his mother when she began pestering him about it.
You don't like your upbringing? Why are you such an ungrateful little brat?
He popped another handful of candy corn in his mouth and started for Room 4. "I had a happy childhood."
That's not what you're thinking.
What could she possibly know, he used to tell himself, but if the thought crossed his mind, he'd have to run again. She always caught up with him.
Stop looking at those dirty pictures.
He couldn't hear anything other than his own uneven breathing.
Norman!
He collapsed across the bedspread, book clattering over the edge, one arm lying lopsidedly over his mouth as he tried to calm himself.
You dirty little boy, sinners like you go to Hell!
Again he cleaned it up, and again he sat in the kitchen juggling a knife between his hands before sticking it into those sandwiches that never seemed to get old, and left through the connected door. The nippy air relaxed him as it ruffled his dark hair, eyes glimmering with the faint light of the moon. He could hear her screaming at him, but she was miles away, and could only hurt him if he went back.
Mother didn't like music, although there was a record player that lied around, collecting as much dust as her bed and the rest of that somber house. She'd let him play piano when she didn't have a migrane, and she'd become silent, only interjecting when she didn't like the way he was playing. He would adjust, she would become quiet again, and the two of them didn't say a word until it got too dim for him to see the music and his eyes strained to go on.
Quit doing that, she told him every time he continued playing. The music would cease for her. Sometimes she griped about it, but only rarely, when the moon was full and she was getting restless. When that happened, he often traveled out to the store, and maybe wave to a few passerbys on the street. A few of them knew his name. Mother never liked him talking to them.
What was that, Norman?
Her dress fluttered to the floor, and he sprinted down the stairs, bouncing with every step. Another girl was there. Mother roared at him, becoming louder and louder the more he disobeyed, the more he insisted that he could handle one pretty lady. She always had to ensure her son's soul was saved by taking another's.
"Don't you want to know her name?"
I don't want to know any slut's name.
"She wrote Mary, but she said Marion..."
Of course Mother didn't care. Her word was forever true, but Norman continued trying anyway.