This is a piece that was written on the journey to and from VCA on the tram today. I haven’t written the script yet, and I’m using this spare time to try and get right into the back of my story, and explore the origins of the characters. This is a diary entry from the protagonist, James, probably from a time after the period in which my film ill be set. It explores the first night he suffered sexual abuse by his mother, and some back story to their relationship. This isn’t a back story set in stone, but it gave me an interesting insight into the psychology behind the Mother-Son relationship in my story.
22/5/12
It wasn’t that weird at first. She used to come into my room some nights after I had gone to bed and show me pictures of my Dad. Ones from when he was younger, fooling around with all his friends, and ones of him and Mum, before stuff got bad. She won’t show me the later ones. I always wondered if there ever were any. She told me over and over, and I had to admit I shared a certain likeness to my father. I looked nothing like her. There was something in the eyes, and the chin.
This one particular night she came in. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the night of what would have been their tenth anniversary. I think she’d been crying. Her face was still a bit red, and her voice slightly haggard as she came to say good night. She tried her hardest to hide it, though some of the photos were stained, and still slightly damp. I tried to hug her, but she felt stiff, strange, distant. And then in a moment she became like water, and fell into me, squeezing me tight. She wore that exact same perfume that night I would come to dread over the coming years. Light and fruity at first, then fuller, richer beneath.
She pulled away from me, as suddenly as she had fallen, and looked me dead in the eyes. “It’s been ten fucking years, and now he still won’t leave me alone! Bastard!” she slapped me sharply across the face. My cheek stung, but I sat for a moment, too stunned to say anything. Then I sobbed, unsure of what was wrong. She grabbed me and pulled me in tight. She stroked my hair softly, just as she used to when I came to her, fearful from some nightmare. I quickly hushed in her warm embrace, still confused about her reaction to the hug. She spoke quickly and softly. “It’s okay, darling, I’ll be here. You won’t leave me. I love you, don’t fret. You can’t leave me”. She rambled on. I think she was comforting herself more than anything else. I felt her free hand begin to trace to bones of my skinny chest. Her caressing touch was so soft and gentle. I didn’t move, but as her hand moved with more urgency, I shifted back. She held me down tighter. “It’s okay darling, I’m here” she cooed, trying to abate my agitation. Her hand then went lower, reaching my leg, though I didn’t move then. My mother knew what to do, and I loved her. She was all I had. But somewhere in the back of my self I knew this was something I couldn’t tell anyone else. It was something so intensely private, but I’d never felt so exposed in all my life.
After what felt like an age, but was really only minutes, she left me. “Now go to sleep honey. I’ll see you in the morning”. She smiled and tucked me in as though nothing had happened. “It’s okay, not many people know what it’s like to have to grow up without a daddy. We’ll keep this in this room, special yes?” I nodded mechanically at this, not knowing what it entailed. “I love you James”. She kissed me on the forehead and left me alone in the dark. I lay awake for hours afterwards. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so exposed and ashamed and love at the same time. I tossed and turned, weighing up the feelings in my mind that I knew I could share with anyone. I finally fell into a restless sleep. I was ten.
The Procrastinating Film Student 