The pictures the boys studied inside their school books were getting raunchier. Norman's ears would get warm as they nudged each other and displayed their treasure.

"Norman's a pussy," they'd laugh. He hid behind his taxidermy book.

His mother was distracted more and more by the man she was seeing, especially since construction of the motel had started. She stopped caring what he did, or at least, didn't care as much. On good days, she'd let him have some money, and he's run down to a drug store and then to another and another, trying to find the chemicals his book described.

"What're you up to, Norman?" one clerk asked one day.

"Taxidermy."

"Taxidermy? Bit queer, don't you think?"

"I like it." He paid for his things and left without saying anything else.

All he needed was a bird now, but he was rather unsure where to get one. The boys at school, although approaching the age where some just dropped out altogether, frequently went hunting. When they weren't chanting their normal taunts, he approached them.

"I hear you're building a motel," one said as he neared them with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Yeah, but that's not what I really want to-"

"What do you want then?"

He licked his lips. "A bird. A dead bird I mean, one t-to stuff."

The other boy blinked. "A dead bird?"

"Just one. That's all, just one. You shoot birds, don't you?"

"I do, but..." He narrowed his eyelids. "Why should I give you one?"

"I... don't know."

He jabbed his tongue into the side of his cheek. "You're rich, right?"

"I don't consider myself-"

"But you got enough money to build a motel." The boy glanced at his friend. "Tell you what, you give me ten dollars, and I'll get you a bird."

Norman's eyes widened. "Ten?"

"Take it or leave it."

After a few seconds of tense silence, he sighed. "Fine." He left the boys there.

There was a box in his mother's room, ornately decorated as the rest of her area was, with silver hands so intricate sculpted that they seemed almost lifelike at times. Her fingers, still soft even after all these years, would rest upon it, her hand crouched like a dog about to attack, and no matter how many times he asked, she'd never tell him what was inside.

When she was reading in the sitting room one day, Norman saw it was his time to dart up the stairs and into her room. He was touching the Ark of the Covenant, hesitant as he reached out for it, knowing he could suffer instant chastisement for even daring to touch it, but after a decade passed of his feet being planted firmly against the floor and no disturbance from his mother, he knew he could grab it.

Out of the many things that could have been stored there, and the few it was supposed to hold, Norman only found two: a string of pearls that hadn't seen the light of day for the entirety of his life, and a pile of money.

Quickly he fled the scene, hurrying down the steps to distance himself from what from he had committed, until his mother cleared her throat and he stopped on the bottom stair.

"What's the hurry, Norman?"

"Nothing, Mother."

"What were you doing?"

"Looking through my bookshelf." His jaw twitched in the way he did when he was fibbing, and his mother knew it as well as he did. She slapped him.

"Don't lie to me, boy," she growled. "I provide this life for you, and you disrespect me like that?"

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"No you're not."

"I'm sorry, Mother, I really am..."

It had been six years since, and although she never quite figured out what he did, it she never made it harder to go in there. He knew exactly where to get ten dollars.

Chet didn't stay too late that night, allowing his mother more time to spoil herself before she went to bed, but less time for Norman to sneak into her room. He waited in the sitting room, daring enough to go over to the piano ("Quiet, Norman! I have a pounding headache.") and quietly pecked the keys as he waited for the perfect moment. As she washed the plates in the kitchen, he shut the cover over the piano keys and got to his feet.

"I'm going to my room," he said.

"What for?"

"I want to listen to my records."

He climbed the stairs, one hand gripping the railing, the other in his pocket like always, and soon he found himself in front of her room. Hesitantly his gaze shifted to the landing, hidden from view, but her silhouette was absent. The door swung open, and, like a cat, he entered.

It didn't take him long to go over and take what he needed, and he hurried out again, to his room where he threw a record on. Bach played, the regal sound of the organs covering the sound of his heart hammering, and then masking the creaking of the stairs as his mother climbed them. He left his room as her footsteps stopped.

She wasn't in the hall anymore, nor her bedroom. The only thin strip of light came from the bathroom. Of course, it was time for her daily bath, and Norman creeped closer to the door, only slightly ajar. Water was running, but he was unsure of whether or not she was in there yet. He placed his eye against the crack of the door.

It was like those pictures, Norman realized, as his mother's robe fluttered against the floor. She let her hair cascade down her back after pulling out the pin that held her bun together. He could only see her back, only see how her body curved, and although she wasn't as picturesque as pin-up girls, there was still something enticing. A few moments later, she turned, revealing the side of her body, causing Norman's eyes to widen as his ears pounded. Shaky hands pushed against the wall to keep him steady. He didn't dare look away.

So this is what is was like, away from pictures, away from dirty stories. It became harder to breathe as droplets of water caressed her skin, soap suds providing meager coverage. There was no modesty here. Norman moved away after some time, heart racing as he ran back to his room and slammed the door behind him. Quickly, he unbuttoned his pants, flopped down on his bed, and bit down on his finger to keep from groaning. Relief came soon.