“As I travel through the chilly night with the rain drizzling on to my windscreen, a bladder full of piss and a belly full of hunger, there is one thought plays around in my head again and again with no signs of stopping. My mother is dead.
The woman who carried me in her womb for nine months is gone forever. She’s dead, buried and now little more than food for the worms, maggots and flies that will slowly but surely devour her and yet one thing comes back to me. My mother is dead and I couldn’t be happier.”
―
Patrick Scattergood,
Mother, Dearest
