ANILILAPHILIA - The Matriarch (and the Prince)

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|text=18-48, the perfect combination.]]
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**ANILILAPHILIA: THE MATRIARCH (AND THE PRINCE)**
**Author:** [[*user Wynths]]

CW: This piece touches on themes of sexual harassment and gaslighting.

[*https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/totally-legit-scp-anthology-2025 This is an entry into Yossipossi's 2025 Fakethology!] I would recommend checking out some of the other content featured in the anthology -- it's truly excellent stuff.

Total Wordcount: 2861 words, or 14:20 minutes of content (at 200WPM.)

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I remember seeing you out there in the concert stands,
Sagg'd skin all 'round and a real nice ass.

I figure it was '88, with all them Tony Bennett hits.
('twas the only time he ever came around, singin' oldies some geriatrics!)
Looked around for a bit; the energy was so //fucking// youthful,
Gave one the temptation to take a babe 'n out-'n-out strip.
But I figured then it'd be best if I took you first for a flick:
I ain't wanna get excited, get a stand, then //just// leave you there full.

My ma' always told me, never treat a girl that garbage sort'a way.
I don't think she thought I'd prefer a //real// lady,
but she 'ought to know by now that I don't give much of a shit;
I'd frame that concertwoman's '50s yearbook if she'd help a lonely boy astray.

First person to see me with my arm 'round her waist was Brady;
we were under a shaded oak tree after walkin' a bit.
He exclaimed for a second, got shot down after a dirty look,
still had to worry, though—I ain't know if he'd want to rook.
Was a strange sight, I'm sure, a matriarch and her proud prince,
'Cuz it was promtime, and all the other kids were prob'ly gettin' princesses.
And it wasn't my first time committing, it wasn't my first risk.
But //she// was the one that showed me my taste.

There was nothing wrong, she was completely innocent—
—That's what she claimed to my ma' when we were ending.
To the world she was damn right, too far left had she been bent,
Yet in my heart, I know that she knew what'd gone wrong since the beginning.
Nothin' big, nothing fancy; no kisses, only a reluctant few cuddles.
And—I didn't feel the need for //it//, and she felt all the urge'a the world for //it//.

She noticed first, her absence was bigger than mine.
Goddamn, if she couldn't make it any more trite:
You've got to put in some effort, put in some //love.//
'Lest we lock our buddin' relationship in a cold, cold trunk.
Perhaps she thought she could salvage it, perhaps she actually wanted to.
Meanwhile, I saw it for what it was: some'in temporary as morning's dew.
Her flesh was all wrong, even if the fault wasn't her own.
And 18 wasn't enough to overlook that, even if the abandonin' was wrong.

18-48, the perfect combination;
Our life stations were different, and that made zero difference.
I saw her as my salvation, a respite from the mold since
she had no fake pretenses, and that made all the difference.
The last weeks in the hall may have been a bit awkward...
(You hear 'bout that bastard Matthew? He's into fucking seniors!)
It wouldn't make me any less stalwart.
Forgive me brother, if it's not your //mother// which I dream about.

Forgive me brother, but that night was just too loud.
I wanted to bring her home to my bed, I wanted to dine with her and drink some fine champagne.
And when I held her hand and felt the life of an adventurous heart,
you bet your ass we had several hikes that night under the covers and a cupid's harp.

None of the judgement will stop me from seeing the girl from Bennett's concert—
—No, not on my account.
Only one other person made me think to reconsider:

My real mother.

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[[div class="blockquote"]]

They never prepare you for the things that matter.

They had warned us about it, but those first few months were calmer (relatively) than I would have thought. We had looked into lactation, the two of us, in preparation for when he came. The doctors said I'd need a little help. An augmented breastmilk-formula diet, despite how sour the word "formula" was then. 

He drank excitedly, vigorously -- the formula helped my love in the night, but I didn't need it after all. He could handle the baby's feeding as I snatched a respite. In the morning, sticky-eyed and with my elbows creaking, he would take from me as soon as I had the strength to sit up. I found it odd at moments how beautiful he was as he squinted up at me, but more than that, it was pleasant. Somehow, he had a way of drinking where it didn't hurt, not even a moment. And he was a very healthy boy. He never slept as a kid, or at least, it felt like he didn't. And he never cried much, not like the other boys did with their moms in that class. Yet he loved. 

We couldn't have asked for more.

The first few months came into the first few years, and it was then that the difficulties came to be. I'd seen before how parents dealt with screams, but God.

Oh God.

Veronica even commented on it, when she heard me call out from work over the phone: Stacey, what's going on with lil' Matt? Is he well? 

The worst part was that she said it with a tinge of worry for //him//, as though it couldn't be that a kid simply cried and yelled and railed //that// much without prior prompt. It was almost maddening, the way it would fill the air so completely that it harmonized with itself, its echoes jumping off the bare walls (Walls bare //because// of him!) and hooking themselves into my ears and running and running and running and **//running.//**

And I never did figure out what made him so unhappy, though I know that he always liked to step past it whenever he could. I saw that he would always linger for me, long after it should have been a habit abandoned, but I tried to ignore it. Let him play ball instead, let him make friends -- maybe they'll calm him.

It happened that this was not the case.

More questions. How come Matt doesn't play with the other kids? You know Jacki wanted to play with him, right, and he told her no! In a mean way too, nasty way; don't you think that's odd for a kid like 'im? Have you tried setting more playdates?

Fuck them. My schedule was full. It did nothing.

It continued for what felt like forever, and while the cries calmed down, there was always another trouble that he seemed to have. It was a trouble for me. Don't forget; **always**, there was that hollow, scooped out feeling, the feeling of your muscles and bones and sinew being wrenched out from you and placed somewhere else. And he ate it.

It was December when I first noticed it -- it must have been because he tried to lie and say that it wasn't what it seemed, and he did it by covering himself with gifts. //What! I was just trying to see what you bought, Mom, that's it!// And I had to call him on it, immediately: //Liar! Get the hell out of here!//

He knew that I didn't keep my presents in the bedroom, and he knew that I was showering, and he had to find where the key was in order to open the door that I always, **always** had locked. //I heard the lock pop! Don't try to lie to me!//

Afterwards, though I made sure to lock through his room while he was gone, and to check that he was in there when the night was long, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. There was order (Jesus Christ, there //was// order.); it was I who prevented there being peace. Don't blame me for it, please, I think I might die if another ever heard this and then thinks it was my fault at the end of it.

I don't think I could talk 'bout //it// if I tried, it's not as though you ever see someone with the need to. Who the hell complains about their son... like this? Should I even use the word "complain"? I use it because I don't want to set anything against him, but I cannot be sure that I am honest with that word.

Is it a complaint to say that he shouldn't be staring at my breasts, the way he did as an infant (and I am sure that it **is** the **same** way.), and at my thighs and the cut between them? I did talk to him about it, but he was innocent, sure, and it wasn't related to the //goddamn gift accident!// And he was so emphatic, I dropped it, and his father defended him before I could. 

//You're making this to be more than it is, honey. I don't think our lil' prince has done this sort of... thing, you know?//

//How do you explain this shit! How do you explain what I've just told you!//

//First, you do **not** know that it is really him.//

//So, what, **you're** the one whisking away my goddamned-//

//-No, of course not, I don't need to do the sort of shit a teenaged boy would do. But he is not teenaged!//

//He's old enough. He's 13.//

//Fine -- even if we give you the idea that any kid is capable of it, I just...//

//What? **What!**//

//...//

I can't know anymore; I won that argument, I can be reasonably confident in that, but was I right?

Am I unfair to say that when I throw my clothes into the laundry, that //all// of them should come out, and that if he //happened to know// where they might be, that he could help me look for them and that I would not bring out the big guns, the guns that disturbed both peace and order, if they appeared? I guess it was fair that I stuck to my promise, that when they appeared clean and seemingly undisturbed, that no questions were asked. But could it have ever been fair to ask if it was **him** that disappeared it? And then.

Then.

He became older still, and the problem shifted. It wasn't me anymore, and I felt deep within myself the relief that came with that realization, but it was others. It was those moms I took instruction, guidance from so long ago, the ones like me. It was never, at least not until then, with that excitement and vigor that he reserved for me his whole life. It scares me to think now why he was excited, //but fuck you, what do you **mean** his whole life? As// though it may have been but excitement...

Was he still excited? There was a change; it was impossible to tell in what direction or to what strength, but there was.

And I wasn't the focus of his world anymore.[[footnote]]Thank God.[[/footnote]]

[[/div]]

Hey, Matthew, I need to talk to you.
...
Would you open up?

[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
Yeah! Just gimme a sec!
[[/div]]

[[Div style="text-align: center;"]]
//**The door opens.**//
[[/div]]

Do you mind sitting for a bit, I want to talk to you...

[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
...about what? You can't just say sum'n like that and not go on on.
[[/div]]

Yes, but I want to give you a minute. Because it's about Julia.

[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
W-What do you mean Julia?
[[/div]]

Oh my God, Matthew, don't //try// to lie to me. I know who Julia is.

[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
[[size 80%]]Wait... no, //how?//[[/size]]
[[/div]]

[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
Wait, what the hell? You-
[[/div]]
 

You don't cuss in this house, young man, and you sure as hell won't when I'm //talking to you!//

 
[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
Mom, I don't //care// about saying the word //**hell**// when you're trying to put me through it! The hell do you mean //Julia?// I just don't-
[[/div]]
 
Do I need to spell it out for you?

[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
I... you know what, yes! I don't //know// what you're talking about, Mom.
[[/div]]

Oh my God, you're going to kill me, Matt.

[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
What
is
it?
[[/div]]

Julia. Rodriguez. A //mother.// You-

[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
You don't-
[[/div]]

Get over here, now!
 
[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
No, I can't! Not until you tell me what the hell you're trying to do, trying to-
[[/div]]
 
Trying to //what?// You act like I'm committing, committing, some... //evil// against you by pointing out that-

[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
You //are!// And, besides, it's probably not even what you think it is! It's not like we're out there actually being a goddamned couple; we're careful! I know what you're going to say, and for fuck's sake, I've-
[[/div]]

You haven't done //anything!// All you've done is just get yourself in further with this woman, who, I mean, do you even //know// her? How do you know her besides from a **concert?**

[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
Mom, of course I know her! What do you mean, **know her?**  Are-
[[/div]]

You //know what I mean!// You always, all-

[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
I don't! I don't always know what you mean, Mom, and honestly, I think you're just worrying too much about this! I can explain to you who Julia is, but I want you to-
[[/div]]

I don't care about explaining why you can't be with someone //older than me!// You know why that's wrong, young man!

 
[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
//Fuck// off with that! I'm old enough to decide this for myself, you-
[[/div]]

 
You're eighteen, Matt! //Eighteen!// You don't get to-

 
[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
-Get to what? Get to decide shit for myself like an //adult?// Ma', you know as well as I do that I'm ready to come out of the house, ready to go and //do shit!//
[[/div]]

 
You're not an adult! You're not thinking like one: just think about why this //woman// wants to be with you!

 
[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
It's why //I// want to be with //her!//
[[/div]]

 
She's fifty! She's already divorced; don't you think that's //odd?// Don't you think you should just be with someone your-

 
[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
//Don't you fucking dare.//
[[/div]]


[[Div style="text-align: center;"]]
//I'm right!// You know I'm right, you //fucking idiot!//
[[/div]] 
 
[[Div style="text-align: right;"]]
...
[[/div]]

 
Wait, I didn't-
 
-Mean to say that...

Please come back. I love you, my son.

I just want you to be safe...


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A slip of paper came through in the morning, after the suitcase was already packed and her guest room's vacant.

[[div class="papernote"]]
I'm sorry for what happened last night. That shouldn't have happened.

You can see Julia. I think you can manage yourself if you try, you're smart enough to. I worry about you, but I will have faith in you.

Please. Be careful.

- Mom
[[/div]]

Silently, I left through the door while she pretended to be asleep. Started up my shitcan of a car. The silver bumps in its side and back felt shameful to me, now that I had someone that I cared about seeing it. I knew I would have to book some appointment with a mechanic to get it fixed-up, or whatever you do to smooth out a car chassis.

The road was dead this time of day; surprising, because I've always seen it to be active even when we would leave at 2 or 3 to go to my father's place or for cross-state road trips. I can only assume it's been made a passageway, a little approval from the divine forces above me that this //was// the right thing to do. The car's soundproofing did little to mute the roar of the engine, that was the extent of the nothingness.

Normally, I would have put something on, even just some wordless jazz, but this moment was... reverent. I need to respect it. So I do, and I focused on the road more than I ever had as I passed from streetlight to streetlight, their sanctuaries of light illuminating my whole car as though it were bright daylight, though it could not have been more than dim. 

The gas stops turned into the highway, which did pass a few cars through its concrete arteries. I wondered what each of them could have been doing; was the red roofer's truck an old contractor, coming home after a hard night's work? Was the white Mercedes a psychotic millionaire, getting to the office hours before everyone else to be poised to posture hard work? 

Fuck if I knew.

The air became tepid here, and it was only then that I realized that I'd really gotten the nerves. It was a bit embarrassing that I hadn't even moved and I was already so invested, I guess, but I don't know -- I assume that it's just that way, I just love her that much. That ain't wrong, right? 

I felt chills of anticipation. Turn into the residences. Straight down the bridge. Wind through the roundabouts.

Her home was a beautiful one, definitely a retiree's home. It'slow, with well-done bushes that must have been her son's work. Their red flowers accentuated the peeling yellow Hardie plank. It had a single, sleek blue car in the driveway; a young person's type of car. I smile—I knew she would have had that sort'a model. I pulled into the weathered thing, and, with a brisk look around, I knock on her door.

She's ready for me. 

"Oh! It's you, my love!" She wrapped her arms around me as she said this, and she tucks me inside.

The home had become more comfortable since I had last seen it. The couches were incredibly plush, and throwing myself onto them was like laying on some exorbitantly expensive mattress in the store. //Those were only the couches!// I thought. God, just imagine the bed...

It was such a warm feeling being in there. Of course, all the warm tones helped: the red-tinted and mahogany-looking wood floor, the orange-tinted white walls, the lit yellow candles of the Virgin Mary that smelled vaguely of cinnamon. Even the books on the shelf seemed only to be in reds and dull whites. The TV besides it, a large CRT that sat on a larger shelf, didn't contain a hint of blue. There would be no blues here.

She beckoned to me now; she had prepared something for the two of us. I eagerly receive it.

The first supper I had out'a the home was garlic bread, noodles, an egg soup, and the woman of my dreams. 

Julia Rodriguez, always in Fall, born in September, the perfect compliment to a Spring baby. 

It was fucking amazing.

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ANILILAPHILIA - The Matriarch (and the Prince)

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