The first time Norman Bates ever saw a woman naked, completely free of any sort of restrictive clothing, he was no more than twelve years old. It was the age where the boys at the schoolhouse, although always sneering, always bullheaded, decided they couldn't let any male peer get behind, no matter how queer, and by doing so, effectively wrapped him into the realms of adulthood.
He was gangly, around five foot five by then, hair always escaping the nice form his mother sculpted for him. The large, awkward hands of his came to his face as he saw the pictures - girls with plump thighs and snowy breasts, lips crimson and eye sultry, stroking, teasing, water cascading down around them from the comforts of their home or from somewhere else exotic. All of them seemed to be piercing his gaze with their own, each one edging him on to some challenge he couldn't decipher. His face became uncomfortably warm.
"C'mon Norman, stop being a puss."
I'm not, he attempted to choke out, but his words were blocked by that constant fear that his mother was always watching.
"Put it away," he murmured.
"What?"
Cheeks burning, mind reeling, he slinked off.
"He's nuttin' but a mama's boy!"
Definitely not the worst thing they ever called him, but he grimaced and went back inside the building. Recess was terrible anyway.
Norman walked home everyday after school, scuffing his feet against the dusty roads, creating clouds that couldn't withstand the wind. They clung to his pants, the one of two pairs he always wore. He always received flack for it, but it was mesmerizing to watch. It was a lengthy walk, but one he enjoyed nonetheless, abruptly ended by the voice of his mother and the rustling of his jacket being hung next to the entrance. Rarely she'd ask him anything; sometimes she'd be scolding him for something; often she'd stay quiet until supper was ready.
His fingers ran across the keys of the piano in their sitting room. It held itself with a proud posture that he knew only came with age, and as it still dropped in certain areas, it was easy to guess its antiquity. Gently his fingertips pressed onto the whites and the blacks, picking out a silly song the children at school adored singing, and then another about stars and animals, until the shrill tone of his mother rolled through the room.
"Norman! Dinner!"
He stuffed his hands into his pocket and made his way to the kitchen. "Quit slouching," she said as he stopped in the doorway. "It's bad for you."
His shoulders flexed back, and then he made his way to the seat he always sat in: a rickety, oak chair that squeaked when he put his weight on it. A plate of food was set in front of him. It wasn't until halfway through the meal did he glance at the refrigerator, or make an attempt at speaking with his mother, who had been talking somewhat to herself since they began eating.
"The boys at school brought dirty pictures," he said quietly.
Her posture stiffened. "And?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, the boys brought dirty pictures."
"Did they get caught?"
"No."
"How'd you know about them? Did you look at them?"
"No."
"Then how'd you know?"
"I could hear them talking."
She stuck her fork into the beans on her plate. It wasn't angry, like it could have been, but not gentle, like it very rarely ever was, and she folded her hands beneath her chin and searched him with her eyes, scanning for any deceit in his words.
"Don't be looking at naked women, Norman. They're ghastly."
"I won't, Mother."
She leaned back in her chair and resumed eating again. Norman flexed his fingers and waited for her to finish.
He knew by now how humans worked. Although he hadn't performed any dances of seduction and passionate romance, the general understanding was there. Those bare ladies were supposed to excite men, arouse them in an unholy way. Thinking back on them now he only felt slightly flustered, and even more intrigued.
It was 8:30, and his mother was preparing for bed. She never took her baths in the morning - something about the air, he never could grasp onto her reasoning - and she sat in the bathroom by herself, ignoring his trudging steps around the door. The thought occurred to him that his mother was now as exposed as the women he had seen earlier.
He hesitated near the door of the bathroom, checking that any sort of camera was absent, because after all, she could have been one of them. Although it had been a decade since the photo on the wall near the kitchen was taken, it was a lie to say she wasn't handsome at one point of her life. She'd changed ever since her husband died, but finding a widow who hadn't was a nearly impossible search.
His nose twitched. Why, his father - his father had seen her without any clothing on. His knuckles flexed. She had let him see her, and it was okay since they were acknowledged as a valid couple with no sort of moral consequences pursuing them, but the thought-
Sprawling fingers grasped the handle of the door. He jumped a moment later as her voice called to him.
"Norman? Norman, is that you?"
"Yes, Mother," he only murmured, and slumped away to his room, as he wasn't in the mood for another lecture. Not today, at least.