Oh, Oedipus

The motel had its own brand of nighttime: eerie and dead quiet except for the faint hum of the neon motel sign. Some would call it lonely, isolated, unbearable, but Norman called it home.

'Called' it home, although, on most days, it felt like a prison; no bars, only windows flanked by lace curtains. No guards, only Mother watching and waiting like a sentry. And tonight was one of those occasions where he was painfully aware of his confinement, how inescapable his situation was. 

The faint, low hum eventually blended into the background noise until it was barely audible unless he focused. It was nicer out here. Only endless desert and fresh air, something he desperately needed he supposed.

smooches u