The world is spinning, the bile burning my throat. This isn't Mom. This is one of them. Just another still shape. Just meat like the others, that’s all. But I can’t do it, I can’t not see her. This isn’t just meat, not just any meat… this meat is… the one who made me, the one who held me when I cried, when dad left, the one who gave me everything she had. The truth I learned on the rooftop slams into me again, harder than before, much harder. It’s a train with no brakes grinding over and over me, crushing my heart in my chest and dragging thick, ugly sobs from my starving lungs. I curl tighter, clenching my teeth, desperately trying to hold the fractured pieces of me together, wishing I could disappear, wishing the world would disappear, that everything everywhere would stop, but it doesn't. It just keeps on being, relentlessly. I just keep being, and I keep on hurting, and I know deep down in my soul that nothing will ever make it go away.

  Get up.

  That voice that isn’t a voice is hounding me again, it just won’t leave me be.

  Get up!

  The world swirls aimlessly around me, my body limp and aching and defiant but I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to go.

  I’ve got to go. A stinging pressure low in my belly tells me there’s no time to waste but with everything that’s happened already, all I can do is struggle against the urge to lie here and die.

  Butters…

  I open my eyes. I have to find her but Mom… I have to do something for her. I can’t look at her anymore. I can’t let this be. Not for my mom. My eyes burn, but the tears won’t come. So I force myself up, force my legs to move, stumbling away from the carnage and pushing with all I have left, for the familiar door at the end of the hall. The retreat makes my breath hitch in my chest but I can’t face it all right now. I’ll do it. I’ll go back for her. I will.

  Sitting on my own toilet feels oddly comforting despite the presence just beyond the pristine white tiled walls. The knot in my tummy eases and I can finally let go. The relief, like a shiver, releasing the unyielding tensity in a rolling wave, radiating out from my core, into my back, my legs, my arms, my neck, my hands and feet and fingers and toes, permeating my entire body, rippling through my scalp and into my eyes only to bounce back, washing through me like cool water on a scorching summer day. I feel like I’m breathing for the first time in days. I can do it. I can do it now. I think.

  Finding my feet, I stalk quietly from the bathroom. The scene in Mom’s room is no less horrific but I find some strength, deep down, and shamble hesitantly towards her, legs still shaking violently. My fingers grip the duvet tight and I pull it from the bed, trying to ignore the blood and filth smeared across it. With trembling hands, I spread it over her, covering the gaping, bloody mess, covering the exposed insides, covering the horror. Finally staring face to face with my whole world. My mother, my best friend. It’s not enough.

  Nothing is enough.

  The air in Mom’s room is thick with the stench, even with her covered but I force myself to stay, to move, to look around. There are things I need, things I have to find… something, something useful. I start with her dresser, pulling open drawers, finding neat piles of clothes, jewelry, things that don’t matter anymore. The presence of her still shape looms behind me, a constant, sickening weight, making my skin crawl. I move to her closet, pushing aside dresses and coats, the fabric rustling like whispers in the silence, the smell of her perfume bringing fresh tears to my eyes. Under the piles of shoes, in the back of the cupboard is her safe, hidden in a recess, concealed with magic. It’s small, old, and I don’t really know why I’m looking for it but here I am. I run my fingers over the keypad. Four numbers. It has to be a birthday. Mom’s? Mine? Dad’s? I try Mom’s birthday first. Beep. Boop. Boop. Beep… Nothing happens. I look closer and hit the hash key. With a harsh chime, it flashes four hashes and doesn’t open.

  Tim’s older, probably him… Boop. Boop. Beep. Boop. But it’s not him either. Dad? Me? Beep. Beep. Beep. Boop. I smile, just a flicker, as the lock clicks open. I guess I really was her favourite… Tim was right. The heavy door swings open. Inside, nothing. Nothing… locked in a safe. Not a spare car key, not my birth certificate, frigging nothing. It’s empty! I slam the door in irritation, sending a mighty, metallic clout through the heavy steel box and setting my ears ringing. The door rebounds, reeling, swinging more calmly back to half open as a heavy, distinct “duff” comes from inside. I look again and find a small, black case, no bigger than an average sized book, lying flat against the back side. Contained within, nestled on a velvet lining, is a gun. A small, black one, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Two magazines, loaded with shiny brass bullets with holes in the front. And a box with more of them. Dad bought it for her before he left, made her practice at the shooting range until she could shoot it in her sleep. He said it was for protection. It’s for protection. Now, it’s just… here.

  It’s here. I’m here… It’s mine now.

  Holding this little thing in my hand is strange. I’ve held it before but that was different. I was always scared of it but I don’t feel scared now, not scared of it anyway. It’s heavy, so very heavy in my hand, solid. It’s a tool. A tool to keep me safe.

  I tuck the gun deep into the waistband of my skirt, pulling my jersey down to cover it from sight. The weight is alien, but the solid presence ignites a sense of power in my heart. Electricity that fuels my movement, crackles in my mind and drives me from pity and pain into surgical action. The pressure of the impending storm is pressing down on me. I have to move.

  “Butters?” I wander through the house, “Butters, come here, it’s ok.”

  My bedroom is untouched. The door was closed and the dogs had no reason to come in here so everything is just the way I left it. I need clothes, something functional, something for the rain, something warm. So I shed my uniform, dragging on a pair of tough cargo trousers over my stockings. A long sleeved t-shirt, a jersey, my favourite hoodie and finally, my thick, blue rain jacket. The jacket is stiff, I only wore it on fishing trips with dad, but I need it now, it’s perfect and it has the perfect pocket for my gun.

  Finally, I drag on my favourite pair of trainers. There’s no way I’m going out there in those clunky school shoes. There’s so much I could take but I can’t take everything. My phone jumps out at me, fully charged, plugged in but useless. Useless. The urge to take it is so strong but I know it’s just a piece of plastic now. I reach out and take it, unlock it, check for messages but there’s not a single one. They’re all gone. Everyone who might have called. All of them. I shake my head and put it on airplane mode to save the battery, dropping it into my pocket and retrieving the charger with a defiant grimace. Dad gave it to me, it’s not useless.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  My Bag. My sturdy, bright orange hiking backpack is exactly what I need. It's not fully packed, but the familiar weight is comforting, and I know it holds a few crucial items I prepared for the last family trip: the rolled-up first-aid kit, some cord, my headlamp, water bottle and the small, waterproof fishing tackle box from grandad. I pull the tackle box out and turn it over in my hands. My fingers caress the weathered metal for a brief second before I pop the lid. Hooks, twine, a few small weights and… Dad’s old swiss army knife.

  It’s the one he always used to carry in his pocket, before he went away. I remember the day he left, a year ago… how sad he was, how sad Mom was. He never told me why, Mom never told me. But I remember what he said that day, when he gave me this knife, his knife. The one he taught me how to open when I was really little, the one he taught me to cut fishing line with. He never went anywhere without it. Never. But then, that day, he gave it to me. He said “there’s nothing I can do that you can’t do with the right attitude and the right tools,” and then he left me. He left us.

  My hand trembles as I reach for it. It’s cold, heavy, solid and razor sharp. A new kind of hope, fragile but fierce, ignites in my chest. He wouldn't just go away. He wouldn’t just die, not Dad. Not my dad. If anyone could still be out there it’s him.

  I clutch the knife, its familiar weight a strange comfort. This isn't just a knife. It's a clue. A direction. I have to find him. I have to. And so I turn to leave my room for the last time. I sling the familiar pack onto my back, the weight settling immediately on my shoulders. Time to go. Now, I just need Butters.

  She’s hiding somewhere. I don't know where but I’m sure she can’t have gone far. She wouldn’t. Would she? Where would she go? I move quietly into the lounge, peering into the dim, chaotic space, whispering her name again. “Buttermilk?” Nothing moves. I crouch low and check under the couch, the coffee table, behind the sofa and the curtains but there’s nothing. No little white shape, no odd little squeak.

  In the kitchen, I take a moment to pick through the cupboards for some real food but my focus is still on Butters. Where is she? Not here either. Where did she go when I dropped her? She jumped down and… my bedroom was closed. Then I fetched Mr. Bubbles. She’s not in Mom’s room. She’s not in Tim’s room… “Butters!”

  With a mounting desperation, I turn back to my bedroom. I’ve just been here but it’s the only place I haven’t really checked. The cupboards are closed, my bed a mess, but the room is mercifully intact. The smell here is less intense, just the stale air of a space recently abandoned.

  My eyes fix on the small, private world of my bed. A rumpled duvet, piled high with warm, fluffy blankets, scattered with stuffed animals and soft pillows but no Buttermilk. My eyes lock on one of my stuffed animals and I pick it up, staring at it, my heart aching. It’s Mr. Bubbles, My old stuffed rabbit. His fur is worn smooth from years of savage snuggling and too many times in the washing machine. He’s been with me forever, “he’s the first thing you ever gave me.”

  It’s stupid, childish. A worthless gesture, but I can’t leave her all alone. Not like this. I won’t.

  Without a backwards glance, almost without thinking, I cross the hall to Mom’s room, Mr. Bubbles clutched tight against my chest. It’s so hard to look at her, even when she’s covered up but I have to do this. For her. For me. I have to.

  Lifting the duvet just a little, so I can see her face again, I place Mr. Bubbles gently in the crook of her arm to watch over her, right where I would hold him while I sleep but as I gaze at her one last time, a sharp glint of light catches my eye from the fold beneath her blouse. There, nestled just below her left collarbone, is her diamond crucifix. She’s always worn it, for as long as I can remember, it was there. I would try to catch the sparkles when I was little. I thought they were tiny fairies, or stars that had come to visit. I think it was Grandma’s but I never met her. It’s something precious, something hers and I feel a crushing need to take it with me.

  "I love you, Mom," the words break in the ragged depths of my throat as I take the little thing in my hand, search the chain for its clasp and try not to gag on the smell, the feel of her skin. In my hand, it feels so heavy, like the weight of the world is trapped inside of it, all the memories of my whole life.

  The tears finally find their way back to us. "I miss you so much. Mr. Bubbles will protect you now."

  Leaving her room for the last time is the hardest and easiest thing I’ve ever done. I get up and I walk out and I cry until my jaw hurts. Until my eyes are puffy and stinging. Until there are no more tears and nothing left to squeeze them out. This must be what dying feels like.

  Mindlessly, I return to my room and sit down on my bed.

  “Squeak?” My heart does a backflip as I jump in fright, before I realise and the fright is replaced with a profound sense of relief that washes over me like a wave. A small, white shape is tucked deep into the crook of a pillow, hidden under a folded edge of the duvet. How the heck did I not see you? “I thought I’d lost you!”

  Her wide, yellow eyes blink slowly at me. She’s safe. She was waiting, waiting for me, thank god. I sink down, place my head on my pillow and just watch her for a moment. She’s real. She is the only living thing that’s left for me. The only thing that’s still whole. The only comfort I have. The only comfort I can hope for.

  I reach out my hand, and she immediately uncurls, stretching luxuriously. Her purr makes the fear go away, a thunderclap of sanity, drowning out the stench and the silence and everything and for a long while, I can’t look away, can’t stop cuddling her but I know I have to go.

  Finally, I scoop her up, shoving her deep inside my hoodie, wrapping her up in my arms as I steel myself for the road ahead. The weight of her body, the warmth of her purr—it’s the last piece of armor I need.

  Pulling my hood tight and zipping the thick, blue fabric right up to my chin, I step out into the hall. The sound of the wind is now a raw shriek that penetrates the small cracks in the window frames. I’m on edge as I move toward the front door, slipping past the carnage in the hall, not looking at my brother’s broken form. I should cover him, but I’m not sure I can face it again. I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve. My hand curls around the cold steel of the knob, turning it slightly with a waning resolve.

  I hesitate.

  The door is cold and heavy, shut but not locked, the last barrier between me and… out there. I wrench it open and step out into the yard, making my way toward the gate, fighting the urge to look back but it’s no use. My fingers grasp the gate latch and I freeze. The sudden drum of light, soaking rain on my jacket is the final warning. It’s still light out but the sun is low. The massive bank of clouds is rolling overhead now; rain is coming and the light will go with it. I look down at my trainers, I’ll be soaked, out there in the dark with… I should wait, shouldn’t I? This isn’t brave. It's stupid, reckless. Patience. The right thing to do now is to be patient. But Dad wouldn’t be patient… if it were me, he’d be out there right now. Maybe he is? But he’s Dad. I’m me. I should wait. I should wait. Right?

  It’s the last place I want to stay the night. So close to… everything. But I don’t have a choice. It’s here, or the school… or… there’s nowhere. There’s nowhere clean anymore, nowhere I won’t have to see them, smell them. It’s as good as I can hope for.

  With a sigh, I trudge back inside, clicking the door shut behind me. A night in my own bed really doesn’t sound so bad after everything that’s happened.

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