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skwigelfskwisgaar · 6 months ago

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He could see his breath. Sweden, 1984. Cold winter blanketed everything in white. He was wearing a thick wool sweater his mother picked out for him, knitted in a creamy color to bring out his sparkling blue eyes.

Cold. Numbing cold. And blinding white snow. It pained his eyes. Still he marched on. Pride bloomed in his chest, his heart swelling in joy after he studied for music class and successfully remembered everything they had covered.

It was the first thing he felt. Pride and joy.

Each step he took it brought him closer to home. The snow under his feet gave way easily, promising relief from winter's grasp and the blinding snow.

He had been looking forward to school. He had been such a good student. His mother had promised sweet bread and spiced mead for him to try. He would be like the warriors of Valhalla. Drinking mead, eating a feast of his choice. He was so excited to show her his grade in music class. He finally remembered the terminology and the scale! He struggled with it badly before -

He took a small hand out to turn the doorknob.

Skwisgaar's heart thumped in his chest. He knew where this was going and he screamed at himself to stop before the all too familiar sight played again.

He flung opened the door.

"Momma, I'm home!"

Skwisgaar smiles as the smell of lussekatter rolls fills his nose, and his mom's special stew. He was so happy that she found them a home. She was tired of moving just like he was. Unpacking and packing up was always a hassle.

He quickly took his shoes off and walked over to the kitchen to see Serveta in an apron saying "Kiss the Chef", pulling out the rolls from the tiny oven in the kitchen. She placed them down on a cooling rack before going over to kiss Skwisgaar on the forehead.

"Skwisgaar? I'm in the kitchen!"

... what? The kitchen? It felt like the very day he first saw his mother's very active lifestyle, and not... whatever this was.

A deep confusion set in the adult Skwisgaar's mind. Was this not the day he first walked in on his mother? What was going on?

" So tell me? How was school?"

"I did it! Just like we studied yesterday. I remembered all the words and passed the test in music class." He looked at the table set up and smiled big - his mom had prepped her stew, his sweet rolls were cooling down and she had gotten some fruits and jams to eat afterward. And right in the center was the bottle of spiced mead.

"I knew you would get a passing score. Go and wash up, put your books away, and come down to set the table. Afterwards, we can watch some television."

In his mind, Skwisgaar's confusion gave way to hurt. To anger. To questions he knew the answer to.

Serveta took off the oven mittens she had and began to take off her apron, leaving Skwisgaar to walk up to his room as he hastily put his books away. She had a plain blue dress shirt on with buttons down the front, and a pair of white jeans on. She looked like she walked off one of the American fashion magazines she liked to gawk over in the big market.

" You think I'm going to let you drink your first glass out of a cup? You must be mistaken." Serveta pulled out a set of glass ...teacups? Skwisgaar had seen her and his grandmother use them when drinking glögg around this time of year. The glasses were in a bath of water in a pot in the sink, and as she dried them he noticed it was hot water they had soaked in.

Coming back down, his mother dried her hands and stepped aside as he washed his own hands and quickly set the plates and the glasses down. This was after his first growth spurt, the first of many that made him the tallest member of Dethklok. He remembered how awkward he felt and lacking in grace it all was. Watching how to move himself because his body's new height was changing so frequently, he couldn't keep up and adjust.

"If you're drinking glögg, you're going to do it properly."

"Like you?" Serveta stopped, a questioning look on her face. She responds, "Yes? It's meant to be taken like a tea. Hot and steaming." She takes the mead and sets it in the pot, before finally sitting down.

Skwisgaar paused as Serveta finally took the bottle of mead and poured it into the glasses. Rasing the glass up to her face, she took in a deep breath and blew a bit on the top of the liquid. Passing one of them, he took it, a genuine wonder in his face and touch, never blinking. As if the glass would vanish if he blinked.

As they ate, that pit of anger grew. Fury rose in him. What was this weird ... dream? Nightmare? Deep down, he knew what it was. Quit lying to yourself.

It was the childhood desires he ruthlessly buried in the snow. It was the yearnings of a child that he left behind with her that first time he was forgotten, ignored, accused of being selfish for wanting a mom. For wanting his mom to care. The childish want for companionship from his family that he numbed with each high, each couch he slept on, each step he took away from her and the disasters that befell him and his first few bands in Gothenburg.

Back in the murky glow of the kitchen, dream Skwisgaar asked the strange version of Serveta about her day, as she served food and he tore open a roll, still warm to the touch.

"Traditionally, your grandmother made me wish for something for the first glass of the season."

"I wish this was real. That you actually cared."

Skwisgaar had glued his eyes to his mother before she spoke, now boring holes into the glass in his hands.

"Make a wish, Skwisgaar."

The words came out before he realized what he said.

He looked back up and watched as his small hands poured out the glögg, right into the rolls. "Then I wish you stopped hurting me."

"Oh, Skwisgaar," she replied, back in her normal red strapless dress, "wake up and stop wishing for useless things." He looked at her as she rose, he face disappointed and annoyed. That was the woman he knew.

You're not useless. You were distant, but not useless.

She hands him her glass, before dusting her dress and patting his shoulder. "Then drink mine. I don't need it anymore." She walked away, her heels loud as she took each step away from young dream Skwisgaar.

"Don't you have a wish?" He asked.

"It came true years ago. You are not in my way, anymore."

He drank her glass, as the ache in his chest became less and less until he couldn't hear his heels anymore. All he felt was anger.

Fury.

- - - - -

He jolts as he wakes and tosses the covers off. He touches his chest, his arms and then his head. No sweater, long hair. Adult sized.

After making a mental note to never touch whatever Pickles was handing out last night, he got up and texted his mom to make sure she was fine before he washed his face. It was something his grandma did when she dreamt of him or his mom, before passing away. She'd make an effort to go out and find them, always believing dreams were omens. An old habit he kept.

This burning coal of anger simmered deep in his gut, and he figured that with sleep efrectively ended for the day, he might as well grab his guitar and play.

Isn't that what he did anyways? Just put to song what words could never describe?

His phone flashed.

"Hej, momma."

His mom was calling.

Confused, he picked up regardless.

"Skwisgaar?"

"Hello, stranger. You never text. What's happening, Skwisgaar?" Serveta quipped in her usual way.

It brought relief he didn't know he was seeking to hear her usual tone, her self coming through in unfiltered annoyance. Tension rolled off him. There were some background noises of what he assumed was possibly the lumber mill for firewood, or maybe she was in the city. There was chatter and vehicles and the sound of water.

".... I was checking in to see if you were... uh, if you were okay."

"I was headed to the market. Isn't it... four in the morning where you are?" Huh, so it was.

"I'm ... busy. With recording. And planning... tour stops."

"Skwisgaar, I know when you're lying. You and my mother always reached out when you had odd dreams."

He sighed. The rage was simmering low in his gut bow, not boiling and flowing through him like it did earlier. Oddly enough, Serveta was cooling him down a bit. Was this what moms did? If anything, he only saw how they made his bandmates uncomfortable, at best.

"Am I not allowed to call you anymore, mom?"

"I was not expecting it."

There was a pause. He was always such an awkward person when speaking to his mother. Always the awkward teenager that she let go back in 1988.

"Uh, I'll visit soon. We can make plans later this month."

"...thank you. For asking. And I'll have some glögg and lussekatter ready for you."

"... do you think you could make some of that stew?"

"That was your grandma's recipe. I'll have to search for her recipe book, but I can." With the promise of a visit and the excuse of being needed for Dethklok stuff, he hung up the phone and collected his thoughts.

With plans to visit her at some point in the future, Skwisgaar brushed his hair and grabbed his guitar after he dressed himself.

She may not have been the best mother, but she was his.

Pickles was able to get over his mother. He was able to heal, and finally tell her off. He could maybe do the same. Or at least try to mend things. Maybe it would work out better.

Murderface was able to keep his grandmother happy. Even if it meant spending boatloads on scooters and medical expenses, he could see that Stella did care and appreciated Murderface. She and Rose were tied for most visits - considerably impressive, given her limited mobilty.

Toki had been in contact with Anja on several occasions. He didn't pry on that particular aspect of Toki's home life, but she messaged him frequently. He also made sure that she had access to him with her own Dethphone, although she seemed more confused than thankful for it when the exchange happened.

Nathan had his mother visit him frequently back when they kicked out Magnus. She was the woman who made sure her kid and his friends had food to eat besides beer. She made sure they knew a mother's touch, helping them with chores and being at their first few venues to give them a ride back. It was maddening at first, to him anyways - his mother was rarely around and having one this ... present was stifling. It nearly suffocated him. Over the years, though, he really came to appreciate Rose Explosion.

He left his room, ooting to stop by the kitchen to grab coffee. As it brewed, he pondered on the women who shaped this band, who raised his bandmates.

If they all managed to get along with their mothers, couldn't he?

#metalocalypse #skwigelf talks #skwisgaar skwigelf #skwisgaar rp blog #ooc:#drabbles #this was sitting in my drafts for mother's day #and. well #i forgot it existed

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