oh noes

Dream 1

I am in a forest.
The snow is falling all around me. Despite the weather, I do not feel cold.
A cottage - no, my cottage - lies ahead. If it can be called one, that is. The straw roof is gone in some places, the light brown walls are torn and falling apart, and the wooden door is rotting away.
It is decaying. Breaking apart from the inside.
Just like our family.
Just like my mother.
Her fever has only gotten worse as time passes. My sister cares for her, but no matter how hard she tries, I know she will never return to how she once was.
Mother is not dead. She is just sick.
But…
I begin to walk toward the cottage. The sound of the snow being crushed by my boots, a soft crunch, is a sound I have known for my entire life. The trees are silent, almost as if they expect an offering. But I have nothing to give.
Having reached the entrance to the cottage, I gently push it open. The door creaks and falls off the hinges with a thump. I shift it aside using my foot and step inside.
Forward. Through the room where Father and I had reveled at the scenery when we first bought this place. The walls used to be painted a light orange, which happened to be Mother’s favorite color. We eventually added my sister’s drawings to the walls - they were exceptionally good for someone of her age. The couch used to be my favorite place to sit, but now the stuffing is falling out in some places and it is sagging.
To the right. Through the place where my sister would play her flute. Father and Mother would clap, and I would feel jealous. The floorboards in this room squeal as I put my weight on them. This was never her favorite room - her hatred for the color of the walls, the so-called “ugly and stupid” window, and the ant infestation were all things she emphasized.
Up the stairs. The steps where I fell after Father accidentally shoved me. He had been unpacking our belongings after we moved in. I still remember the tears of relief rolling down his face, each and every one of them sparkling like diamonds. I did not suffer any major injuries, but the bruises I got hurt for weeks. Mother scolded him after that.
To the left, through the corridor, and then turn left once again. Open the door to where my mother lay, dying and living at the same time. The room was dimly lit through the light of the hallway. The sheets on the bed were dirtied. My sister and I were always too afraid to wash them - fear makes people do the strangest things.
Mother used to have shiny hair. Everyone would compliment her. My sister and I would play with those locks of chestnut. It always smelled like roses, no matter what happened. Now, it was a dull shade of brown.
Mother used to have fair skin. Once light pink, it was now a sickly, yellowish color. Looking at it made my sister tired. It was a constant reminder of how everything had changed.
Mother used to be healthy enough to talk to us. But now, the silence fills the air, twisting and swirling with twinges of misery.
I no longer believe in her recovery. My sister is just barely clinging to hope. And I’m sure Mother wouldn’t want to be like this anymore. Even if she wants to stay this way, even if she believes she can heal…I can’t.
Even if everything was fixed, nothing would go back to normal.
Father will not come back to life.
My sister would never forget the gaping hole Mother would - no, has - left on her soul.
And I would never look at the world the same way.
The weight in my pocket suddenly feels like a boulder. The survival knife Father gave me on my sixth birthday…
…to think I would use it for something like this.
I take five more steps. Now, I am standing before her. I can smell the stench now - the strangling scent of a body that hasn’t bathed in several months.
Reaching my hand into my pocket, my fingers wrap around the knife. I caress the carvings on the handle. Slowly, I pull it out.
My heart aches. I wish things were different.
For my parents.
For my sister.
For me.
…if she knew what I was planning, she would cry.
I’m sorry. But we can longer afford to take care of Mother. The price is far too great.
I can no longer trust the gods to cure her of her ailments.
I position the knife above her stomach. I don’t have what it takes to stab her in the heart, nor do I have what it takes to stab her in the head.
The cold steel is refreshing. It could mean a new beginning or a new chasm - right between me and the last person in the world that I care about.
After this, we will move to the city. Living in the slums alongside others who have received fates as bad as ours can’t possibly be that different from freezing out here in our ramshackle cottage. There would only be thieves to worry about. Maybe we can even get a job.
The knife goes down. One.
A trickle of blood runs out of her slightly open mouth.
I pull the knife back up. Then, I push it back down, in a different area. Two.
Blood starts to show on the blanket. I cover my mouth, suppressing the surge of nausea.
One more time. Just…to be sure…
…I throw the knife on the floor, away from us. It clatters as it skids across the floorboards.
No more. I can’t do this. I-
Bile rises in my throat. I swallow the acidic taste of the vomit. With my left hand still wrapped around my mouth, I drag Mother out of her bed and wrap the sheets around her. I don’t want the blood to show anywhere else.
Her body is lighter than I expected. Maybe the illness has been eating away at her more than I thought.
Back down the stairs. The stairs with the railing that Mother wanted to paint black. “The chipped paint is driving me insane,” she’d complain.
Back through my sister’s favorite room. The place where Mother would tell my sister, “You have true talent, honey! Maybe you’ll be a world-class musician someday!”
Back through the living room. Past the carpet where I accidentally broke the plates that my grandmother left Mother before she died. I felt absolutely miserable then, but Mother said…

“It’s okay. They were just plates. I would’ve been far more angry if you had gotten yourself hurt.”

A choked sob comes out from between my lips. I can barely breathe. It feels as if the air inside the cottage is judging me for my sin.
Why?
Why does it have to be this way?
My legs feel like solid blocks of stone. All I want to do right now is collapse in a heap.
But there is no going back anymore. I cannot undo this bloodshed. All I can do is leave her somewhere and pray for her soul.
I’m sure…Mother would understand. Right?
…right?
I am outside now and I feel dreadfully cold. Everything I touch feels like ice. The trees loom overhead, the sky an endless expanse of unforgiving white.
With every step I take, she seems to get heavier and heavier. I hope my sister doesn’t come back for the next five minutes. I still need time to hide Mother’s body…
The tracks…I’ll need to hide them. I can’t make anymore tracks, either - it would seem too suspicious. I’ll tell her that I was bored and kicked all the snow out of the way.
I stop to pick up Mother’s body, carrying her with both arms instead of dragging her across the snow. The more I think about the quiet bundle in my arms, the colder I feel. Shivers run down my spine.
We’re almost to the lake. The only thing I have to do is break the ice and toss her in, heavy rock attached. She’ll drift through the waters that she so loved. Back when Mother was alive, she said she wanted her corpse to be amongst the life within the unmoving blue. So why…
…does it seem so wrong?
I don’t want to throw her in the lake.
I don’t want to bury her in the dark soil.
I don’t want to burn her on some sort of funeral pyre.
…It’s not that I don’t want her soul to rest.
I’m just not strong enough to do it.
I’ll leave Mother by the well-worn trail. If I can’t get the job done, then someone else can. As for my sister…I’ll tell her some bandits took Mother away. It might not sound convincing now, but…it’ll have to do. There’s nothing else I can think of, anyway.
…I’m sorry, Mother. I love you.