send me one.

✗ —— Norman thinks he wants to cry. His stomach roils, his chest feels tight and heavy, and his hands are shaking. The rest of his body is shaking, too, but it can’t be said if that is nerves, or a fight for control.

                                    She wants kisses, while he holds a
                                     butcher’s knife to her stomach.

              Blink. Look down. Somehow, someway, she replaced his weapon, his safety, with a popsicle stick (you’ve been so good lately, Norman). A wave of fear washes over him, and gasps rasp out of his chest, in and out, in and out.

              Mother claws, scrapes, and scratches, somewhere along the back of his               skull. It tickles, but not the same way it used to when he was a boy. It hurts,               because she wants to make it hurt, because she wants to be in-charge.               She’s mad, furious, and just as scared as he is.

                                    Dead, dead. She’s dead. I killed her
                                    you killed w e killed her. You did something,
                                    Norman. What did you do do do do do ——?

              He wanted to kiss her. He remembers that with a whimper, hiding his face in his hands. The popsicle stick falls into his lap, staining light blue fabric with sticky orange juices, while he stares at her through his fingers.

              In the hall, in the office, in the parlor… Oh yes. She was just so darn pretty
              with her hair of gold and those sinfully kissable lips of hers. Lips he had so
              often read about, but never thought they actually existed.

              He remembers the electricity that rocketed through his system when he
              spied on her through his little secret, and the familiar, shameful sensation
              of a tugging at his groin. He remembers not going to see Mother, because
              then she would see, and she would know what the girl had done, and she
              would make the little slut pay pay pay…

              ❝I can’t kill you,❞ Norman whispers. You can’t kill what’s already dead. Or couldn’t you? Wasn’t that what Dr. Raymond and his nosy little schemers kept trying to do to Mother?

She sobs at that, wild with fear. You’re supposed to love me, Norman. Me, me, only me. I love you, my darling boy, my brave son. Norman, Norman— And just like that, she’s angry again. Fine! Betray me, just like your Father did! Spineless, mindless little boy that you are, distracted by any inch of creamy, sinful flesh that you can lay your eyes on! Disgusting little pervert, go on and tell the girl what you wanted to do to her! Go on! Tell her! Or must I do it for you?

                                    ❝—B-but I-I would like to kkiss you.
                                    Very very much.❞ Oh. Was that how
                                     simple it was? He can remember
                                     being tempted when he was holding
                                     her in his arms, the warm stickiness
                                     of her blood touching his shirt through
                                     the curtain, and quickly chases that
                                     thought away.

Marion stands before, as serene as an angel,
all in white. Much nicer than the shower curtain
he had sent her away in.

         No sinning here. Not when she looks like that.
                  And she smiles, as if she can read his thoughts.

                                    Mother screams, her fury
                                     exploding like a band of
                                     fireworks inside his skull.

Marion is soft enough to dull the pain away.