**Unhinged**
“Oliver, let me in. Let me in! I’m your mother! You have to give me money, or they won’t take me back,” came the relentless knocking at the door, the voice sharp and insistent. “You owe me this!”
Oliver leaned against the door, eyes squeezed shut. No. He wouldn’t open it. He’d spent his entire childhood branded as “the odd one out,” and he’d had enough. He retreated to his room, flopped onto the bed, and cranked up his headphones.
His early years were a blur. He vaguely remembered a toy car for his fifth birthday, a cake, nursery friends. His dad had still been around then.
Then the people from *that* organisation moved in. And just like that, birthdays stopped.
His mum fell under their spell almost instantly. His dad, unable to stomach her new obsession, left, divorced her, and agreed to pay child support—though none of it ever went on clothes or shoes for Oliver. The organisation had always felt like an octopus lying in wait. Harmless-looking at first, until its tentacles wrapped around you.
His sixth birthday went uncelebrated. So did the next ten. The group didn’t believe in such things. Instead, there were “special days” when they’d eat something nice—when they weren’t trudging door-to-door preaching, his mum dragging him along.
She sold their flat quickly—the organisation’s lawyers made sure of that. Oliver was left with little more than a registration in some ramshackle shared house in the middle of nowhere. The money? Straight to the community.
School was worse. He shared a room with other women and their kids, wore donated clothes from overseas charities, and preached until his voice cracked. Classmates mocked him. He fought back and got punished twice—once by his bullies, once by the group, for torn clothes or “not preaching hard enough.”
They wrote him off as a lost cause. So at sixteen, he ran. A thousand miles away, to London. College, work, university. Now he was a successful programmer with his own flat.
But the fear that had haunted him for years had come true. His mother and her fanatics had found him again. A convenient cash cow.
***
It started a week ago, when his mother—barely recognisable—ambushed him outside work.
“Hello, darling! I’ve been waiting three hours!”
“What do you want?”
“I’m your *mother*! I missed you. Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“No. You weren’t invited. I won’t let you in. But I’ll buy you food if you’re hungry.”
She beamed. “Oh, thank you! Let’s eat together.”
He bought her a meal. They sat on a park bench.
“What about your group?” Oliver asked. “Did you leave?”
“Not exactly. But I’m not… useful enough anymore. I’ve got nowhere to go.”
“How did you find me?”
“They gave me your address. Told me to go to my son. So here I am.”
Oliver sighed. “Where are you staying?”
“Oh, nowhere really. But I’ll manage—the stairwell will do.”
Another sigh. “Fine. You can stay with me.”
For a few days, he let himself hope. She cooked, asked about his life. He, starved for family, chatted eagerly.
Then, a week later, *they* showed up. And the money vanished.
Oliver came home to an empty flat and an open drawer—the one where he kept his savings and a recent bonus. He’d meant to deposit it. Too late now.
His mother returned soon after, grinning.
“Sweetheart, you should be proud! Your tainted money has gone to a noble cause. You can come back now—you’ll be saved, just like me!”
“That was most of my savings, *Mum*. Give it back, or I’ll report it stolen.”
“Would a loving mother steal from her son?” she trilled. “Who’d believe you? Want to be a laughingstock?”
Her smile twisted into something cold.
Oliver lunged up. “Get out! I don’t want to see you—or *them*—ever again.”
His voice cracked. “I actually believed you missed me. Thought maybe, just maybe, I could have a normal family. And I paid for that. Again.”
“You’re *nothing* to us. A traitor. You should beg for forgiveness for the rest of your life!” Her eyes burned with hatred, not love.
He shoved her out, double-locked the door (she only had a key for one), and listened to her shrieking on the landing.
***
The next morning, Oliver stepped out for his usual jog. His mother sat on a bench outside with two men.
“There he is! My own flesh and blood, leaving his poor mum to *die* in the streets. Did you sleep well, darling, while I froze on concrete?”
He walked past. She followed, her lackeys in tow. He spun around. “What do you *want*?”
“Sweetheart, you know we collect donations. You grew up with us—you know the good we do. Pay up,” her voice turned shrill, “or we’ll ruin your life. At work. At home. Everywhere.”
“Why should I? *You* left me with nothing!”
“Because you never truly believed,” she hissed. “Repent before it’s too late.”
“Leave. Or I’m calling the police.” His jaw clenched. “Your lot’s practically banned anyway.”
They slunk off. Oliver was drenched in sweat, shaking. Eight years later, and they still terrified him.
The next day, his boss called him in.
“Look, mate, not my business, but… our phones have been ringing off the hook about you. Did you really kick your mum out?”
“Did she tell you she sold our home and gave the money to her cult?”
His boss grimaced. “Oliver, a major client called. Doesn’t want you near their projects. Take a holiday. Or… look elsewhere.”
He quit that day. No point arguing.
The group had always been powerful. They’d known where he studied, lived. Waited until he had something to lose.
Walking home, his phone rang.
“Enjoy the preview of your new life? We’re just getting started. Neighbours’ll hold a trial for you soon.”
“What do you *want*?”
“You’re *ours*, Oliver. Pay up, and you’ll live.”
He hung up, exhausted. He booked a flight to Edinburgh. The flat could wait. Right now, he just needed to salvage what was left.
Maybe they’d get bored. Find another victim. He’d paid his price for freedom already.
