The Mother

by Amy Cawood

 

 The day the world ended still lingered on the passing streets. The leftovers of a city I will only remember. Those sights I covered the boy’s eyes from. Our steps barely make a whisper as we shuffle through the broken glass that used to be shop windows. I can’t help but think of the altercations that took place here. Those moments when humanity is faced with fear, I realized then, that you cannot judge a person’s character, as you too are only trying to survive. You will cut in front of a line; you will push someone aside. You will bruise and batter any obstacle in seeking that idealized safety. What draws the line between survival and monstrous, is having that line. Identify your line and never cross that line. 

The light streaming in through the boarded windows illuminated the clearness in his eyes. The piercing sea-green, so vibrant it was like you could see through them. The lines amongst them, the last few years of hardship, but the smile that still reached them. The strength that still held there. His mirror-image, sitting next to him. Only three years old and knows too much. Born well into the days that the creatures emerged; this was all he knew of life. Our talks of the past are a foreign language to him. It was stepping through littered streets, such as these, heading South that led us further into secluded towns. Leading, finally, to a small, abandoned home- abandoned as much as I knew. I think he saw more, saw its occupants. But I understood him, understood the hard mask he carried back into the house that day. The smile that didn’t reach his eyes, the hard lines on its edges that didn’t appear. He kissed our son, held him, careened him into his chest. I saw the fresh mounds of dirt in the back. It reminded me of the broken mouse he buried that he found our cats playing with. A soul, is a soul, is a soul. But those creatures- soulless. The depths beyond their eyes show no flicker of morality, a single thought only controlled by slaughter. The day the creatures emerged caused those creases in his eyes. The day he flung himself into the doorway of our home, clutching his sliced abdomen, the blood slipping through his fingers. My swollen belly struggled to get off the couch to attend. His face is stuck like that. His sea-green eyes that used to sparkle like glass now beam red with fear, and weariness, and endless strength. We packed necessities, rummaged through stores just like the ones I saw with the broken windows. And when those lines are drawn- when you need that antibiotic and that stitching, and you are willing to push someone out of the way, that is when you draw the line. You take that one moment and you realize, it is a mother with a son, just like the one you carry in your swollen belly. The son with blue coloring around his mouth, wheezing against his mother’s chest. She, too, is here for medicine, and you stand in the way of its glass casing. She grips a weapon, just like you. That is where you draw the line. 

But it was the boy who kept us going. The day our son emerged with lungs bellowing and vocal cords echoing, for that moment, we all howled. He was the reason we went on. As we passed from place to place, discovering homes that felt they had no other choice but the quick and safer way to go, we fought for our son. There was no other love to describe what we felt for him. We thought what we felt for each other was it, but once that boy entered the world, screaming and crying with power, we decided together, silently, we continue until we find sanctuary. It reminded me of a quote from a book I read, “if he is not the word of God, then God never spoke.” If this boy is not the salvation our world needs, I will accept no other alternative. I refuse to believe in any other statement.   

While he was small, I carried him tightly against my chest, but as he grew, I could no longer hold him as we ran. When we shuffled from one home to the next, we learned it was easier to travel as just us, him carrying the boy. Others were quick to turn on us in these moments with a child; we understood they feared the noises he never made. And it was travelling South we found this farmhouse. Sitting at this withered kitchen table, in this withered home that we patched as best as we could, we enjoyed breakfast. The company of each other, discussing the day’s plans, and that was when we heard the noise. The glances between him and I knew what was approaching. He stood up from his chair, its abrupt push startling the boy as I reached to place him in my arms. He approaches the window, peaking out and sucking in a rush of air. I managed to look between its boards and see three approaching creatures. They walked on all fours, all appendages looking like long, grossly shaped fingers. Mouths with sharp teeth stretching from ear to ear. Exposing a reptilian-like tongue. They can either hear us or smell us, but they know we are here. Immediately he grabbed me and the boy, pushing us up the stairs. We take two or more steps at a  time, making our way to the very back room. I place the boy down as we slam the door shut and push our weight against it, sliding the two locks into place. We never planned for this. Creatures don’t travel in packs, and it is easy to outsmart one, but rarely two. Three were frightening. 

 Pushed against that door, feet striking so hard into the wooden floor it started creaking, his sea-green eyes glancing in my direction. Every hard line etched in this face. He looks at me, the boy, and the window. The small window in the room, pointing out to a river with a  small boat. Understanding must have swept across my face as he closed his eyes. I yield back, pushing my feet harder into the floor and the front door smashes open. The putrid smell of the creatures lingered up the stairs and I braced tighter against the door. I meet his gaze, reinforcing the statement we made in fighting this together, the boy silently standing in the corner. Booming up the stairs started resonating off the door, the smell growing stronger, and the sounds of the creatures sniffing for us growing louder. I looked at the boy. His toddler stature, broad and strong. Too strong for me to carry, I could never move fast enough. Only he was able to carry the boy and move silently through the streets. I slowed us down. I looked at him and his head jutted forward with the impact of the creatures slamming against the door. They found us.

“You do not question me, you take him now,” I assert. His face lingers on mine, he knows what I mean. We pushed all of our force against the door and his sea-green eyes just looked at me, his muscles straining taking on most of the weight, as always.

“Take him now!” I can’t carry him!” Tears fill my eyes, and his gaze does not leave mine. Those lines are growing stronger and deeper. He will not budge. “Let me give you time. You can run with him. Let me give you time. Please!” Pleading takes over my voice as it breaks. “Let me give you time, I will meet you at  the boat,” as the door’s hinges shudder.

“GO NOW!” I spit. He gives me a knowing look, and that look reaches his eyes. I brace stronger against the giving door, bracing the weight alone. He grabs the boy and we all three share one last look. He leaps from the window the moment it opens. My forearms groan to the door’s pressure, my shoulders giving in, and sounds of wood shredding start to rampage through the room. The creatures will break through it very soon. This is where the line is drawn. I will make sure that boy lives. I let one hand loose from the door and pulled out the knife strapped against my side. The knife I would’ve used against that mother. I stepped back from the door, standing in the middle of the room. I glance through the window and see him and the boy waiting in the middle of that river, hoping the boy’s mother will get on it. 

Lying- that is not where I draw the line. I clutch my knife, just as he taught me. And the door breaks.

 

Story by Amy Cawood - 2024