This is the next installment of my Campfire Tales series about a dystopian future post a global pandemic. I started writing these in 2013 so any similarities to what we have experienced in the past 3 years is purely coincidental. The following installment is about the heroine in the series and begins to lay out her history. I hope you enjoy it.
Finch
The musty smell of damp corners and dirty bodies filled my nose as I lay looking at the bottom of the bunk a foot above my head. It had been decorated over the years with the epitaphs of the homeless who had come before me.
“Sally was here.”
I wondered if Sally was still here, or dead or if by chance she was able to pull herself out of the filth and start a new life. Given the rising death tolls, I’d bet on Sally being dead. Like so many others. The image of my mother and father floated into my mind. I tried not to think of them very often, but every now and then, they crept in, pushing out any happy thoughts that might have been foolish enough to bubble up to the top.
It’s been two years since I last saw them. Thinking now about that horrid, ugly day. The terrible things I said and my mother screaming. Always screaming. Telling me it was all my fault that Jared had got sick and died. While I knew better, there was still a sliver of guilt that dug into my heart at the thought of my little brother.
No doubt I could have done things differently, but the way my mother was spiraling into hysterics left me no hope. Truth be told, I miss my mother. Or at least the mother that was before the pandemic. The mother that would pick me up from school and we’d sneak off for an ice cream before going home. The mother that would cheer in the stands for me when I scored a goal. The mother that would hold me at night when one of my friends said something cruel.
I wondered if Sally was a mother. Did she have her kids with her in the shelter? Or had they already died. So many kids died. Are still dying. Even if they don’t get the virus or they don’t get too sick from it, there are complications. I am almost grateful that Jared went so early. He had looked like an angel when they pulled the tube out of his mouth, his chest stopped its mechanical pumping, and his face was soft and peaceful. The most painful part was watching my mother crumble to the floor, wailing, and thrashing her arms against the hard tile. I remember sitting there holding my brother’s hand when my mother lunged across the bed and slapped me hard across my cheek. My head whipped back and the chair flipped over sending me sprawling to the floor.
My father grabbed mom, held her in a tight hug and just stared at me, his eyes as accusing as my mother’s slap. Holding my hand to my stinging face, I pushed myself back across the floor until I hit the wall.
“Get out!” my mother screamed. “Get out and never come back.”
My father said nothing. Just held my mother to his chest and stared at me. I’m not sure which hurt more, the slap or the dead look in my father’s eyes.
I scrambled out the door, my sneakers slipping on the glossy sterile tile and fled down the hallway. I remember wandering the streets for several hours, then made up my mind to at least get some of my things. When I arrived home, my parents weren’t in the house, so I snuck to my room, where I found it was as empty as my mother’s soul. The smell of disinfectant stung my nose as I turned and walked out into the kitchen. I saw them through the patio doors, standing over a pile of ash. My father raking it back and forth, making sure everything was good and burned.
Although I knew I should leave quietly, I just couldn’t help myself. I pulled the sliding door wide, walked out and stood behind them for a moment. Then spoke barely above a whisper, “You didn’t used to hate me. I’m hurting too, you know.”
I remembered my mother turning, her face barely recognizable, her skin stretched so tightly over her skull as she screamed, mouth wide, eyes demonic slits dripping with hatred, “You killed him. It’s your fault he’s dead. You’re so selfish. I told you to get out. GET! OUT!”
“You are a hysterical bitch and I hope the virus takes you slowly and painfully,” I spat at her as I turned and ran.
I ran to the woods, to the group of homeless who felt more like family than my parents ever did. Mazey caught me in her arms, hugging me to her soft welcoming bosom. The woody mossy scent of her hair filling me with warmth. That night I cried. I cried for Jared. I cried for my parents, and I cried for the me that never would be.
Compelling story. I enjoyed it! I kept wondering why the narrator's mom blamed her for her brother's death and what she said or did to trigger such hysterical hatred. It would be interesting to see things from the perspective of the mom or dad.