A DRINK, THE DEVIL, AND MY MOTHER

by Lisa Gurney 

One evening, very late, I arose from bed to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table. Part of her face was illuminated by a small light over the stove; the other cast in gloomy shadow. A clear glass filled with chestnut-colored liquid sat in front of her and the sweet and sour smell of alcohol floated from her skin and filled the room. I had become familiar with the scent since my father’s death a few months earlier. She smiled when she saw me and I did too. Then, she said something and my smile vanished.
     "I love the devil." 
     "What Mummy?" I said, a crackle of fear spreading through me.
     "I said I love the devil!" and she giggled.
     At eight years old, I knew who the devil was. Raised in a Catholic family and taught by Franciscan priests and nuns, my books in school showed his creepy face, smiling crookedly when he speared his victims. I knew of his power. And he had my mother. Next, he would have me too.    NEXT