The Devil's Mother, Writer's cramp entry

The little boy, at this time a pale red, horns only just peeking, held the drawing up to his mother.
A preposterous look of anger and shock formed slowly on her face. She scolded him and incinerated the boy’s drawing in her hand, there and then.
As if to get rid of some left over residue or perhaps just symbolically, smacked her hands then clasped the boy and dragged him away.

His horns were more pronounced now, and he had taken to sharpening them as the other boys did, to appear more confident.
Now too, a deepening red, he arrived home and greeted his mother. She was reading, now requiring thin spectacles to make out the words. Prompting him with hand gestures he leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. The young man’s mother inquired how the test had gone and, while beginning to make himself a snack, he replied that he had scored 90%, with a grin on his face.
His mother carefully took off her glasses in an accusatory way, laid them on the reading table, as she did with her dusty book - marking the page with a dog ear.
They argued fiercely and it ended briefly, with his mother walking out of the room. Where this young man lives, arguments are never drawn out. She said before she left, in an indescribably hurtful and misunderstanding way that “you’re only letting yourself down”. It stuck with him as his figure matured and his mother aged, and he grew up.

A deep, intense crimson now. His horns are curled slightly and in pristine condition, with strong male legs, slightly resembling a goat’s.
He finds himself the subject of many women’s’ dreams but cannot escape his childhood, bruised and scarred more times than he dare remember.
Turning to drink, he finds a certain amount of solace in the numbing effects of alcohol. Halford’s Brimstone™ becomes his drink of choice, chugging back several bottles a day. A portion of his life flashes by in a daze of confusion, drunken stupor and better-repressed memories.

A near death experience forces him to reform. He agonisingly pieces his shattered life back together. After much work, decides it is time to visit his mother again. She is in a care home.

Once a true monster of a woman, sharper and more blood curdling that the screams of sinners, has been reduced to a pitiful being. A gentle trickle of drool drips down the corner of her cheek, and she is unable to stop it as she lies on her bed. An electronic beep sounds ever few moments, showing her heart is frail but still beating.

Previously asleep, now woken by his footsteps and arrival at her bedside, she seems to recognise him and smiles a dreary, ignorant smile. He reaches for her withered and canulated hand and holds it. After a time, she suddenly begins to speak in a tone he has not heard before. “Your father was so handsome” she said, voice trailing. “He used to row me across the lake every evening and we would gaze at the sunset. So romantic he was,” softly sighing, “I loved him.” The son found the story vaguely touching, despite their history. “Of course I was quite a looker back then!” she exclaimed “I had so many after me, I can’t even remember how many I declined.” After a moment’s pause “No, he was the one. Our honeymoon was better than any portrayed in so called love books.” Her son looked down. “Then you came along. I thought you were more beautiful than anything in the entire world.” She gave a flicker of a smile, “Then your father...well. My eyes were raw from crying but you were still there, in the cot,” furrowing her brow, “you still needed me. I decided never to cry again.” The man kept hold of his mother’s hand, now seeming to have noticed he was actually there for the first time, her voice became wispy, “You grew up so strong, I was the proudest mother. If I hadn’t of pushed you, you wouldn’t be so strong.” As if she was still trying to convince herself, as well. “Your father would’ve wanted you strong” A single tear rolled down her cheek.

After a long silence, he said “I think I’m getting promoted soon. I may be in charge…” he couldn’t finish his sentence. The beeping of the pulse monitor had become a solid whine. He was overwhelmed with a loss for something he hadn't realised he possessed. He too, allowed himself a lone tear.

Many hours went by before he got up. The little boy, the young man, the troubled drinker and the Devil all walked away together, footsteps echoing.