Bob’s world starts rocking the moment the woman she’d grown with, believing to be his mother tells him in a weak, frail voice "I am not your mother, Bob". There are no moments for questions as he watches her die, leaving him with a question that sends his already troubled and sick mind to the whirls. In his desire to find his roots, he is about to discover facts about a mother he’d witnessed as a little boy and which had troubled him even before he could think, and which eludes him as he grows up. How will he handle his anger when he discovers that the mother-screwer who killed his mother is the same bastard using the very girl he’s vowed to die for?
1
It is not a phobia. It isn’t paranoia. It isn’t anything like delusion. it is real. The nightmare is real and I know no one will believe me. None will accept the fact that I am normal. I am saying silently to myself and I think there is a hard twist on my face as I do it. I am sitting at the psychiatrist’s office where I have sat a dozen times waiting for him. He seems to be concocting something in the next room. I can’t say what it is. But he is taking his time, and it seems just so normal to him to keep people waiting. I am getting anxious and irritated. I know he will try to persuade me that I am just afraid of something that might have happened, something I do not want to talk about.
Bullshit.
He is nuts, like many others I have tried to explain the picture to. They always try to explain everything, they believe they can find an answer to anything and when they can’t, they would tell you that you aren’t saying something.
There is only one thing I am certain of: the nightmare. I was certain of it before I ever became conscious of it. I am also certain that it isn’t in the realm of dream. It is factual. And until I face it, nail it, conquer it, I can’t be cured — not that i am sick anyway.
I begin to doubt if I really needed to come for this session, I don’t see any reason I have to be sitting here. At this point, I remember why I have come, I have come for Ajara. The woman I’ve loved since reason dawned on me and I begin to stutter with words. I have called her mama until her dying bed, and it was then she told me in a matter-of-factly, yet motherly tone that she wasn’t my mother. I am her for her, I am here because she said this burly round fellow could help me.
“You need to continue, honey. He’ll help you.”
I am here out of obedience to a mother who left me with lots of love and with a riddle. Had I known this all along, I might have been cured. But I didn’t know and I might never know.
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