Fog thick like honey but not half-so-sweet clogs the air.
Is the air.
Without a respirator, it would coat my throat, crawl down the black hole between my bony clavicles to cloy in my lungs. Convince me to claw at my chest till the pressure had an escape route. Ten routes to be exact.
Our atmosphere was the first to go.
Corroded by uncensored contaminants. Ignited by the bombs. I fell asleep beneath a burning sky, lulled by Mother’s staggered breaths. By Papa’s sniffles. He gave Mother his respirator. Choked before he began to claw–thank god for small favors, we were told.
The water went next.
Rivers ran dry. Oceans evaporated overnight. Brooks boiled in their basins. Tongues licked lake beds for every. last. drop.
Some wells survived. Shut up tight before the blasts became white noise, a circadian hum. Burrowed deep into the bowels of bunkers that long-outlived their irradiated occupants.
Mother and I managed to commandeer one. Before marrying Papa and moving to the city, Mother grew up on a farm. Knew how to wield an ax. Cut clean. Came in handy.
She made me handy.
In case anyone returned for their missing pieces. Made me hardy. At personal cost, perhaps.
She succumbed to the smog, like Papa. Gave me the respirator she wore when I broke mine. Careless child, Mother said, trading our masks. I ground my teeth. Bit my tongue. Thought I could still taste Papa’s final exhalations on the interior of my new protective gear.
What did that make her, I wondered, for raising a careless child?
For misplacing her respirator in the first place? My answer came swift, like the bombs.
It made Mother dead.
I should’ve been nicer.
The farm was a cold, bitter place, Mother told me while teaching me how to wield the ax. Froze things. Windows shut. Truck doors in place. Blood. During slaughter, it became a solid, crimson sheet of ice across the fields. Bright, red slivers into dark trails as far as the eye could see. Like how the sky looks now, she remarked after my first clean swing. Time to colour the fields, followed the next.
Maybe….maybe, I could’ve been nicer if I wasn’t taught to be so hardy.
If Mother wasn’t. If Papa were.
This world gives as good as it gets, though.
It got Papa and Mother.
Now, it has me.
Wind whips across the withering wasteland stretched before me, ruffling what few patches of green stubbornly remain, stinging skin. Overhead, clouds a sickly off-white– almost-muddy–ruddy-brown streak across the sky. On-and-off they’ve spit.
At the moment, acid rain falls in gentle drops across the still plain. Good thing I covered the well earlier. Each drip seems to sizzle upon impact, eroded dirt rising like embers.
In the distance, several shadows. Lumpy, lopsided blobs just peeking over the murky horizon. Further out, ruins rise like knives, jagged and rough but pointy enough to tear through honey-thick fog. Remnants of a church, I believe. Eastern Orthodox according to the slightly domed spikes. Dead spires, Papa rasped not long before the end.
The blobs grow bigger. Become more than vague impressions. A figure with a crutch under one arm. No other arm. Another hobbling on stumps. One dragging itself along. I grip the hilt of my ax, knuckles out. Widen my stance. A baleful breeze tugs at the strings of my Mother’s hand-me-down respirator.
Time to colour the fields.
Deceivingly cool drops graze what daring flesh is exposed. They burn. I don’t wipe them away. Let them slide down skin. Keep my hold tight around Mother’s legacy. Inhale my inheritance. Every bitter particle.
Shadows creep ever nearer. Dingy clouds dye the sky deep red. A sheer sheet of blood.
Time to colour.
My hands heavy with the weight of want. Mother’s. Papa’s. A careless child’s. A suffocating world’s.
It is not safe here.
That, I promise.
Sound snippets ~cool site. check it out. (not sure if there’s a better way to embed sounds on WordPress *free of upgrade charge*… :/)
***All my short, sweet, & disturbing stories can be found under the Killing It tag ^.^***
Tagged: a strange voyage, Bot prompt, Killing It, personal, story, storytelling, wasteland girl