I don’t know what’s wrong with other teenagers.
Always sulking in their room, phone or computer inches away from their face. Messy room, messy hair, messy schoolwork. So many emails from school, reporting on fights or schoolwork not being done.
That’s what I’ve noticed about my son, Rupert. He’s 16 years old and hasn’t had a single incident up to this day. He’s never sad, as far as I know. He’s never drank alcohol or done drugs. Never missed an assignment. Has friends and is always going out with them. His room is always miraculously clean when I come in.
And he takes weirdly much care of himself for a boy. Showers every day, brushes his teeth, flosses, applies lotion after every shower. I know because he always comes out smelling like lavender after a shower. His hair is always in place and clean. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it greasy or oily.
At first I thought he was gay. Don’t blame me! I’ve never seen a straight boy or a man ever take such good care of himself before in my life. All the males in my life have only cared about games or girlfriends, not how they got a single pimple on their forehead and going to the dermatologist about it.
Then things began getting weird. Rupert would stay in his room for hours in front of the computer, and I would hear the shower turn on and off, again and again. Then I would notice him trying to sneak in cutlery into his room. The other day I caught him sneaking a few forks, spoons and knives upstairs. I stopped him .
“Rupert, why are you taking those to your room?” I asked. He took a deep breath.
“Mom, I’m… I need it for a project. Okay?”
With that, he ran upstairs and locked himself in his room. When I demanded he open the door, he wouldn’t.
Why is my child not listening to me anymore? What’s wrong with my sweet little boy?
Later I noticed Rupert began going out a lot more. He would leave in the evening and come back way later than he should have, for example at 2:30 am. I would grill him about it, but he wouldn’t listen. Eventually I had to lock his window shut and lock the front and back door.
I told him he wasn’t allowed to go out for more than 5 hours, and he must always be home by 11 pm. It might sound harsh, but it was the only way to keep him in order.
After that I began noticing changes in his schoolwork. He used to be an A+ student, the top of every class. I started receiving emails from the school, telling me he’s missed many important projects/tests/homework.
Things started spiraling out of control. Whenever I would enter Rupert’s room, there would be a terrible smell, and I would notice his dirty socks and underwear on the floor. I would yell at him to clean them.
But he wouldn’t. So eventually when things got worse, I had to clean his room myself. Since he wouldn’t let me go into his room alone, I waited until he was out with his friends. I went into his room and locked the door.
I started taking things off the floor and putting them in their places. After I’d done a simple tidy of his room, I stepped into his bathroom. I gagged.
The bathtub was filled with water. But the water was a faded red. There were two girls in the water, their eyes glassy and lifeless, staring at the ceiling. Their faces were severely beaten and cut. I slowly realized what happened to them as I took in the stabs… the pokes… the chunk of human skin lying on the floor just under me. And the cutlery in the bathtub, floating around.
I put a hand to my mouth. I flee out of the bathroom, taking deep breaths and circling around his room. Suddenly I notice a crumpled paper in front of his computer. I pick it up and start reading.
05.05.2022
Mama expects much from me. I know she hates messy things and messy people. I’ve seen her rant about Mrs. Sally’s son, James, who’s a drug addict and a C+ student. “Horrible” she had said. “Just terrible. That little punk. How can he live with a life so miserable?” I don’t want Mama talking about ME like that. It makes me scared. Dizzy. I need to try harder for her. I need to be perfect for her.
09.08.2022
I’ve began being better Mama. I clean my room. I do my homework. I study. I do my best. I hope you’re happy, Mama. It takes a long time and energy to be the perfect son for you. But I will do it. I promise I will do it.
11.08.2022
Mama asked me about the forks and knives today. I didn’t tell her anything. She doesn’t have to know. I know she’ll worry. I don’t want her to worry. Good kids never make their parents worry. I am a good kid. I will be.
12.08.2022
Mama screams at me for coming late. Why am I such a bad son? Good sons don’t make their moms scream. I’ve made mine angry. I’m not perfect. Mama hates me. I hate me. I hate being messy and sad and pathetic, because Mama hates it. I want to be perfect. I want to be clean. But I’m not. And Ashley is. Sarah is. Mama talks good about them. “Good girls” she says. They are perfect. They’re cool and popular and have good friends and good grades and a good life. I want to be them. They make me angry. Why can’t I be good like them? Why? WHY???
13.08.2022
Now Ashley and Sarah aren’t perfect. They aren’t better than me. I am better than them. I will always be perfect for Mama now. She can’t talk about them anymore. She has to talk good about me. I am perfect. Perfect perfect perfect perfect perfect perfect son.
14.08.2022
Mama am I perfect? Do I make you proud? Ashley and Sarah are gone now. They aren’t perfect. They’re miserable and sad and dead. I am not. I am good Mom. I’m a good son. Right? Tell me Mama. Because I know you are reading this.
I crumple the paper more and throw it on the floor, kicking it with my bare feet. Suddenly I hear thumps coming up the stairs, and my Rupert’s voice, happy. He tries to open the door. It won’t open. He starts banging on the door.
His silhouette blocks the orange light coming from the hallway. His shadow is tall and scary from where I’m standing. He bangs harder. He laughs louder. He screams happier.
“I am perfect, Mama!” he screams. “Right?”
He keeps saying that again and again, banging on the door. The door won’t budge. For two hours I stay in his room because I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t. My phone isn’t with me.
For those two hours Rupert has only said one thing.
“Right?”
“Right?”
“Right?”
“Right?”
And the door is beginning to creak. The hinges moan. He bangs harder. My heart thuds.
My son Rupert is perfect.