6 | Psychopomp Magazine
Brandi Wells
Witchmother
The house is a beautiful sphere, the culmination of advanced science and architecture. I am lured in and can’t stop myself even though I know it’s my mother’s house. She stands inside at the window, waving at me. She’s smiling or it’s something like smiling. Her mouth is open wide and she is not frowning or shouting or belittling me in any outright way. I’ve avoided my mother for years but I felt the house in the woods before I ever saw it. I felt a gentle hum in my bones, a little ping in my ears. My body felt loosely held together and I couldn’t stop licking my lips. I wouldn’t have gone to the house if I knew my mother built it. My mother is a drunk, an abuser. These words do not adequately describe her. The thing is, she loves being a drunk and abuser. She loves it. She used to grip me by my face and neck, twisting and pulling at my skin so she’d leave bruises behind. She dragged me around by the skin of my face and neck and I clung to her arms to try to relieve the pain. I stood on my toes to be closer to her, hoping it would hurt less or leave less of a mark. She smiled and laughed while she did it. She was proud to leave a mark. If I tried to cover the marks with clothing, turtlenecks or scarves, she would make me change, so I knew not to try covering myself. I knew not to hide the damage, of which she was proud.
My mother is wild. I cannot predict her movements or when and how she might harm me. Often as a child, I woke in the night and she was naked at the foot of my bed and looking at me. She was heavy then and her body was all folds and creases. Her belly button was entirely absorbed into her abdomen, folded over and over. She told me it ran away. I worried about this loss of a belly button. I stared at myself in mirrors to be sure my body wasn’t shifting or changing. I wanted to be sure my skin wasn’t doubling