My Son is About to Kill Me

Everything hurts. My thoughts are scrambled by a droning sound resembling millions of cicadas buzzing around in my head, and my body is broken and destroyed. I am dying, but the Reaper is taking his time getting to me.

My distressed son paces in front of me, holding the shotgun he used to turn everything below my kneecaps into pink mist. He is crying and babbling like a baby, and I don't blame him; if I had chained up and shot my parents in my basement I would be a mess too.

"It's not my fault, I didn't want any of this," he mumbled to himself. "I needed to do this. I told them not to leave the house for any reason. And what do they do? They do the exact opposite of what I tell them!" I know he isn't speaking to me, but it doesn't feel like he is taking in his own words either. He turns and looks to me.

"I'm so sorry, mom." Tears are streaming down his face. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two shotgun shells. Under any other circumstances, I would be screaming and pleading for my life. But now, my throat is far too dry to do anything besides let out faint wheezes. He takes aim at my head, just like he did with his father yesterday.

He had always loved me more. Yesterday, when my son shot my husband, he probably didn't even see him as human. Part of him was likely happy he was killing his dad. After the years of neglect, I can't really blame him. But I was not my husband. Through the years, I filled the void my husband's apathy created, and my son loved me for that. And now, he was going to shoot me in the head.

"No!" He screamed as he threw down his gun. I traced him as he walked back and forth in the basement. He was having a change of heart.

"You're my mother. I don't know why I thought you would hurt me. I don't know why I'm doing this. I love you, mom." He again walks over to me, and I begin to panic.

I wanted to tell him to stay away.

I wanted to croak out my death wish.

I wanted to turn away as he embraced my body in a hug.

But I failed.

As he kissed my cheek, I unwillingly returned his favor by using the burst of adrenaline and hatred the infection gave me to take a bite out of his face. If my body was still mine, I would have been bawling my eyes out. But my body was no longer mine, and soon, my son's wouldn't be his either.

He stumbles back in pain and confusion, beginning to convulse. The infection is taking hold of him. As I fall back defeated, still chained, I can't feel guilty. All I can feel is the buzzing controlling my broken body, and now, his.

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Credits

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