Bad Mother

The Bad Mother is a strange and unsettling story about a woman who is extremely nasty to her children. This is another popular modern urban legend from Spain. The story of the bad mother which I am about to relate is not well-known, but it is still real. If you have a heart of steel, iron nerves and the soul of a sumo wrestler, sit down, make yourself comfortable and read this story. But if they are weak-minded or fear cruelty and blood, then you must not listen to my tale. In a small town in Spain, many years ago, there was a woman named Rosa who lived in a hut. She raised four children with her husband, two sons and two daughters. Her eldest son was named Francisco. Javier was next, followed by Maria and the youngest, Lucia. Those who knew Rosa said that she was a nice woman, but after the death of her husband, she slowly began to go insane. Little by little, she began to treat her children worse and worse. The young boys and girls were terrified of her, because whenever they did even the slightest thing wrong, Rosa would fly into a rage and hit them so hard that their cries could be heard echoing throughout the house. The neighbors were aware that Rosa was a bad mother, but they had no way of knowing just how bad she could become. One night, the weather forecast on the radio predicted heavy hail, heavy snow and widespread thunderstorms. It was very cold and Rosa told her children to take the axes out of the woodshed because they were going into the forest to chop some firewood. The children knew that their mother would get angry if they didn't listen to her. Within minutes, they were waiting outside, armed with flashlights, bags and axes. They also brought some rotten meat with them in case they encountered a wild animal. Once they had reached the middle of the forest, Rose took her son Francisco aside. 'Francis, you come with me', she said. 'The rest of you cockroaches, look around for wood.' Without another word, Francisco grabbed his bag and followed his mother. When they were out of sight of the other children, the mother turned to him and said, 'Francisco, hold out your bag and stand perfectly still.' He held out the bag and his mother walked behind him. 'I hope you understand what I am about to do', she said. 'Your father was the only one working, and without his income, we are lost. In our house, there is one too many mouths to feed and I am starving. Sorry, but at the same time, no regrets...' With that, his mother picked up the axe and swung it at her son's head. It sliced cleanly through his neck and his severed head fell into the bag he was holding. Then Francisco's body collapsed in a heap on the snow, still clutching the bag. The mother used some snow to wash the blood off her axe and then ran back to her other children. 'Francis was eaten by a bear', she said. 'It's not safe out her. We better go home.' The poor children had no idea what their mother had done. They cried all the way home, mourning the loss of their older brother. They were unaware of what fate had in store for them. At home, when the children were bathing and grooming themselves upstairs, Rosa called Javier and told him she needed help in the kitchen. Javier, always an obedient child, ran downstairs as fast as he could. 'Make me some tea, you little cockroach!' ordered Rosa. When the tea was ready, she growled, 'Bring me the bottle that is sitting on the top shelf of the cupboard.' The boy did as he was told. Rosa poured the contents of the bottle into the tea and then handed it to Javier and told him to drink it. Young Javier was not suspicious in the least. He took the cup his mother handed him and swallowed it in one gulp. He had no way of knowing that his evil mother had poisoned it with deadly cyanide. A minute later, Javier crawled upstairs and collapsed in front of his siblings. He was foaming at the mouth and rolling around on the ground. Lucia came running downstairs and cried, 'Mommy! Mommy! Javi is having a cardiac arrest!' Rosa calmly walked up the stairs and found Javier lying motionless on the floor of the bedroom. His cryi