Sadness

With his hands impersonating a pair of binoculars, Nick inspected the approaching crowd. Most would fail the cut, looking too banal, boring the correct word. But he knew what it took for the act to bear fruits. Careful choosing. Approaching the right person could result in untold riches. Perhaps even as much as a pack of cigarettes. It had happened before. Today, maybe again. His lips stretched to a broad smile as the happy memory whirled cheerfully in his mind.

He zoomed into what looked like an interesting prospect and considered the potential benefactor. He dropped his hands and pinched his chin. He knew how imperative it was for the approach to match the individual. The backward walking stunt seemed the right one to go with. Chatting face to face about their day, or the weather, with one arm extended forward, hand moulded into a pit. He shook his head disapprovingly. He remembered that Mother did not like him doing that. He had fallen and hurt himself too many times. A few of them badly.

The moment had passed, the potential benefactor was now too few steps away for the act to be composed. A new one needed to be found. Amongst the incoming crowd, a familiar shape caught his eye. 'Hang on, what's this, what's this?' Nick raised his binoculars and pinned them on a woman fast approaching. 'Unless my eyes deceive me, tiz the two o'clock woman!' His stomach growled. 'My stomach agrees!'

He veered his sight to the corner of the street. His hands, rock steady. Seconds passed and then a couple of minutes. He was tireless and expectant. And then finally, she appeared. He threw his binoculars to disappear high in the air. 'Alas my brothers and sisters, our time together has come to an end. My angel has arrived!'

The teaser in him watched with satisfaction as his hollering drew a smile on Mother's face along with the accustomed roll of the eyes and shake of the head. Mother was carrying a plastic container. On top of it, there was bread next to something wrapped in tin foil. Nick craned forward, investigating the bundle as it came near and rested under his nose. His stomach once again reminded him of its presence, pressing a question. He looked up. 'And what do we have today my good lady?'

Mother placed the contents of the meal on the cardboard box flipped on its side they were using as a table. 'Chicken soup and meat pie, your favourite.' Nick made an about-turn and stood with one arm behind his back and the other reaching for the clouds. 'A glorious day dear citizens, a glorious day indeed.' He gazed with disappointment, as his involuntary spectators kept walking unwilling to pay attention to his emoting. 'Oh just sit down and eat,' Mother giggled from behind.

He sat on the pile of blankets he kept folded in four, placed against the building's wall and Mother on a plastic beer case she used as a stool. She was at it again. From the corner of his eye Nick could see her probing him. Examining his clothes, looking to see, no doubt, if he was again attacked during the night. 'You know,' she broke the silence, avoiding eye contact, 'we ought to do something about your hygiene.' Nick rocketed to a standing position abandoning his meal, releasing midway his spoon to fall splashing in the container. He stomped his right foot and extended his arms on either side. His palms were facing up, and as he looked into the sky ready to receive a divine gift, he smelled the air with one noisy inhalation. 'It will rain tomorrow; I shall be washed like a flower in a meadow.' He dropped onto his seat and continued devouring his meal. 'Flowers don't smell like that,' Mother teased, creasing her nose. 'But I am a city flower Mother,' Nick contested with his mouth full, his spoon pointing upwards as if making a profound statement. 'We smell different.'

There was unexpected silence. Mother would usually push the issue further. Nick passed a furtive look, then another. She was reserved, holding a sombre expression he had never seen her carry before. A terrible thought sprouted inside his head. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. 'You don't like me calling you Mother anymore?'

She was motionless. Staring persistently into the void. Then, her head quacked, like trying to shake a spell away. 'Of course, I do, why wouldn't I? You call me that every day.'

'Then why the tears, Mother?' Nick said with a clenched heart.

'What tears?' She pricked her body and dabbed her eyes. 'Oh my... I don't know,' she stuttered staring at her moist fingers.

Nick looked around him, at the crowd, searching for a reason to explain Mother's behaviour, or maybe, his gut telling him to look for help. 'Mother, are you ok?'

'I... am not sure what is happening,' she murmured.

Mother began gasping for air and streams of tears were now pouring down her cheeks. Groaning sounds replaced the initial gasps, each one louder than the one before. Nick was already standing when Mother jumped distressed to her feet. His head had gone numb. He gawked at her, not knowing what to do. Her palms were cradling her cheeks. It reminded him of a famous painting he had once seen. Of a man on a bridge under a starry sky. A haunting feeling crept in.

He instinctively grabbed her wrists and cried, 'What is going on mother?' She paused her breathing. Her mouth slowly stretched wide. And once as stretched open as physically seemed possible, her eyes twitched, testifying to a sudden surge of excruciating pain. She screamed. One continues, horrific scream, fading, as the air from her lungs whizzed out.

She shut her mouth and started groaning through her teeth, the fingers of her left hand clawing her cheek. One by one penetrated the flesh, fingernails first. Forcing them deeper and deeper. 'Stop, what are you doing?' Nick tried to pull her hand away, jerking it with all his strength. He couldn't.

They were thrown off balance, swerving around in a paranoid dance. He pulled harder and harder, screaming repeatedly, 'Please stop, Mother, please stop.' And then all of the sudden, he was in the air. Shoved backwards. He landed on his haunches and quickly looked up, seeing in horror a hole where once her cheek was. Her left hand was holding the torn-out bit of flesh. Her right hand, pulled up to her forehead, was peeling a patch of skin downwards above her right eye. She went on her knees, making animal-like sounds and began hammering her head on the pavement. Blood gushed out with the first blow. Nick scrambled against the ground to take hold of her, wrestling against unnatural strength, shouting at the top of his voice, 'Help! Someone! Please Help! Help, Mother!'