Mom

Trigger warning, blood, gore, mildly graphic content.

Every day I applied vodka and changed the wrappings, and every day the wound got worse. As did moms general condition. It started with a lack of appetite, and insomnia. She would pace the store up and down each lane of shelves, humming and whispering to herself. I’d wake up briefly at hearing some product hit the floor, or her curses as she stubbed her toe in her blind midnight wandering. I’d go get her and bring her back to bed. Following this, nausea and fatigue set in. Pairing with the restlessness it left her in a zombie-like trance of groaning and dragging her body along as upright as she could manage. I wish, to whoever reads this, that you never have to hear the moans of a loved one who is very near death. She didn’t always seem to have enough breath to scream but by the third month she would cry and attempt to. By the fourth month she couldn’t walk anymore and was living off of canned soup concentrates. She liked them cold and drowned in black pepper. She drank enough water, thank goodness. She survived another 6 months being reasonably stable in this state. Unsure of if my birthday had passed or not I kept my journal close and debated adding an entry.  

All of moms noise had drawn the attention of an armadillo, who ventured in through the rubble in the front. He had begun to call to the rest of the group by the time I caught him. I flanked him from his left, using the shelves to stay above his line of sight. I jumped down onto his back and sank my knife into his neck. Blood pooled out of him so rapidly that the air caused it to congeal. I backed away and watched the front for any others. I stole for my journal and added a quick entry before tossing it in moms lap. “Mom please hold this for me” I called to her as I ran to the front. She nodded and squeezed it to her bust. I returned as quickly as I could, carrying a bag full of foods and medical supplies.  

I knelt down beside mom and held her to me. “Dirt…” mom started. “I love you.” It was the first time in weeks she had recognized me. I wiped the tears, snot, and blood off of my face with the underside of my shirt and took a deep breath. “I love you too mom.” I offered her a drink of water, but she refused.  

She refused to eat or drink anymore. One by one I would take out any armadillo who came in. It was only a matter of time before mom would pass. I refused to abandon her, and I refused to force her to move again. We held our position and, though she never would understand why, she held my book.  

Her skin started to grey, her eyes yellowed, her face sank in on itself. Within a week, she had passed. When she did I carried her body to the water room and washed it carefully. After clothing my mother. I picked her up, kicked the back door open, and started sprinting. The Armadillos standing guard out back (there was no handle on the exterior of the door) were unprepared. I ran with her a short distance following a sound of rushing water. I hoped and prayed that a river or creek was nearby. I never made it that far.  

I was tackled to the ground by a younger armadillo. He was fast, but emaciated. I landed on my side and tried protecting moms body. The armadillo tried to tear her from me and succeeded for a moment before I lunged at him. He hit the ground hard, dropping her in the process.  

Her head hit the ground first, cracking like an egg against a stone. Shattered fragments of bone, brain, and flesh spilled away from her.  

That was the point where everything went black. I have no memory between that point and trying to re-orient myself dangling upside down from the branch of a tree at least 2 miles away surrounded by deceased Armadillos and covered head to toe in hot, radiating pain. I shimmied down the tree carefully and noticed that the Armadillos were not stabbed. They had been shot.  

I lifted my head and touched a dent in my own skull. Dazed and feeling like my body would slide off of my aching bones, I tried to focus. In front of me, holding a very unique weapon, was a beautiful woman. Her body was lean, toned, healthy and strong. Her hair was relatively clean and her boots were filthy. I’d never seen another worm like her. I must have stared for an age. She reached out her hand to shake mine. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is…”