|In The End
Author: DemolishedDream PM
In the end, we've lost our homes. In the end, we've lost our names. In the end, nothing was left. And so much more started to evolve. Post-apocalyptic, one-shot, a tad bit depressing. Where will you be when the world ends?Rated: Fiction T - English - Tragedy - Words: 888 - Reviews: 3 - Published: 09-11-08 - Status: Complete - id: 2570572
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
In the end, we've lost our homes.
"Mommy! How much farther, mommy? Are we there yet?" Blue-eyed angel batted her eyelashes. "Are we there yet? Are we?"
"No," was her only reply as her gaze drifted towards the setting sun that made the sails glow a bright orange. She shifted on the cold and moist boards beneath her, trying to squeeze at least an ounce of comfort from the four square feet of space she had at her service. As the sun was disappearing, so was the warmth. The air around her grew thicker and the wind started to pick up, pushing them with ease, like a nutshell in a puddle. She drew her knees closer to her chest and rubbed the numbing soles of her feet with shaky fingers. Dry salt crumbled away from her palms. Carefully, she tried to clear her throat, but instead of a deep inhale the diaphragm swelled with a painful wheeze.
As the sun was disappearing, so was the hope.
With every night she grew colder, weaker, sicker, lonelier. She knew that deep inside her chest the first seeds of tuberculosis long began sprouting. They rooted deep in her dry throat and slowly wrapped around her lungs, filling them with sticky phlegm and making her cough out tiny pieces of her own flesh and blood. Piece by piece, she was falling apart, from the inside and out.
She wasn't a medic. She was a waitress in a simple middle-class restaurant. She served diluted red wine, Caesar salad, she could pass canned fish with rice as sushi, and she could give a second life to nearly any outdated product. She knew which way to turn to her clients to earn a tip, how to produce a charming smile. Hell, she even knew how to smile differently for different clients. It was not at all hard. But she wasn't a medic.
The angel danced around the boards of the improvised ship – two doors, six chairs, three bedposts, few window frames, all nailed, and glued, and tied together; bedsheets and curtains for sails. The golden hair twirled and danced around the angel, glowing like a halo in the setting sun. The sun gave a tint of gold to everything around them. But the sea – it was colored in the shades of diluted wine.
"Mommy," the angel said, attempting a clumsy ballet-like pose. "Mommy, are you sick?"
"Yes," was her only reply.
In the end, we've lost our names.
Cold night was bending overhead. With a sense of self-containment, she stuffed the last slice of bread in her mouth, threw in the browning grapes, and washed it down with the last swallow of her water. Grinding the grapes and bread with her teeth, she carefully pulled out the bottle of brandy from one of the big wooden boxes that crowded the rest of the boat. She sat on the box, stretched out her scarred legs, and took a long, savoring swallow. The alcohol was filling her blood and making it pick up the pace. She started to feel warmer already.
"Mom-my," the angel demanded standing right over her, tiny feet stomping with rage and disbelief. "Mommy, you are sick. There is still a long way to go. Don't do this."
"No," was her only reply as she pressed the brandy bottle against her swollen cheek. "The way is short, dearest." She pointed down towards the dark and restless waves. "The end is right beneath us."
"No it's not, it is not, it is not!" the angel cried out in protest and stomped her tiny feet. A smile crossed the woman's face. She stretched out a hand with broken nails and darkening veins and stroked the angel's head.
"Tshh," was all she said in reply. "Tshh."
She wasn't a medic, and there was nothing she could do when a week ago her golden-haired daughter died on the boat of tuberculosis.
"Tshh," she whispered to the angel, stroking the empty air in front of her. "Tshh, love. Hush now. Hush and listen."
"Listen to what?" the little angel pouted.
"To the sound of That world ending," she pointed to the bubbling sea behind them. "And to the sound of This world beginning." And she stretched out her hand towards the sea in front of them.
"But how can you tell, Mommy?" The angel's eyes grew wide and shined with color of forget-me-not. "How can you tell which way is which?"
"There is no compass, yes. No map. No navigation tools." She was dreamily scanning the horizon, smile on her face, alcohol rolling around her tongue. "But that's simply because it's not clear yet. The world that ended and the world that is beginning just met, they are so close you can almost hear them rubbing against each other's scaly backs. But the time will come, and they will finally exchange places."
The angel looked at her with disbelief.
"Yes. This is the time when the old world is still alive and the new world just came to be."
The angel looked towards the horizon, gaze full of thought.
"Are we the old world, mommy?"
"Yes," was her reply. "That is why we must follow it."