Just A Number

The cold wind whips my hair into my face. I hug my coat tighter against me and hurry past people to get into the supermarket. 

"Excuse me." I say, rushing past bodies. Everyone was crowded around one aisle. The aisle I needed to get to. Finally, I made my way past them, each complaining that I was cutting in line. I apologize, but this needs to be done. 

"And you are?" An older man asks me looking at a clipboard of names. 

"Hayley Jenkins. I'm here for Lisa." I answered. The man pulled his glasses down farther on his nose and glanced through the list. 

"Oh, here you are. Jenkins." He threw the pill container my way. "Next!" The crowd grew louder, wanting  to be the next in line. I mazed out of the aisle and picked up a gallon of milk. 

I walked toward my house, humming a lullaby that my mother used to sing to me. Then I heard a voice behind me, singing the same tune, only in a much lower voice. I rapidly spun around. 

There was no one. 

Well, that was creepy.

I continued on my way. Maybe I was imagining it? 

It started again. I quickened my pace until I was almost running. Just as I turned the street corner outside of my house, I decided to take one more glance. 

Nothing. 

I tore open the door as fast as I possibly could. 

"Hey honey." My dad kissed my cheek, he was so sweet. He had curly black hair that resembled mine and pure green eyes, but they were marked with tired wrinkles now. In short, he didn't look like a typical father. "Did you get the pain pills?" I nodded and showed him the medicine. 

"How is she doing? Can I see her? Please." I begged. My father hasn't allowed me to see my mother for the past week. He claims that it would break my heart too much to see her so broken down. To be honest, I'm afraid that he might be right. 

My mother was the strongest person I knew. The army was her life. She was as tough as any guy that walked in with a gun and camouflage suit.

"She's not doing too well, Hayley. I didn't ever want to tell you this, but a doctor is coming tonight to put her in a better place." I was shocked. And angry. My father began to cry, but I was too mad to comfort him. How dare he take her life?

"Mom can get better! She's stronger than all the other women! She can pull through, and you aren't letting her." I screamed in his face. Dad just continued crying. I ran up the stairs, desperate to see my mom. She couldn't be as bad as Dad made her seem.

I unlatched the door and peeked in. Laying in her bed with her eyes closed, she looked peaceful, not at all like she was in pain. 

"Mom?" I grabbed her hand. She was so thin. Thinner than the models that graced the swimwear edition of Sports Illustrated. Dad was right, she wasn't doing well. Her hair was grayed, her cheek bones were noticeable, and all of her muscle tone, along with her body fat, was gone. 

My eyes became puffy with tears. I'm glad that they blurred my vision. I couldn't look at my mom any longer. 

"Hayley...pills." Her voice was pained. I grabbed the pills from my coat pocket and handed them to her. She slowly lifted her fragile, bony hand to her dry lips, swallowing the whole pill. Laying her head back down, she closed her eyes again.

I lifted myself off the chair beside her bed and went back to the living room to apologize to my dad. He was having as much trouble with this as I was.

"Dad, I'm sorry for getting so upset with you." I said, nearing the end of the stairs. I heard his whimpering, mixed with another man's voice. A doctor stood in the middle of my living room, having my dad sign papers as he prepared to end my mother's life. I thought that I would hate this unknown doctor simply because, in theory, he was killing my mom. But I didn't, it was his job. 

"So, will it hurt her?" Dad choked out. 

"Not at all. I've had a lot of experience with this. It's a shame, but we're used to it. I'm very qualified." The doctor rambled off his "professional" answer. 

The doctor was experienced with death. He was especially qualified with this kind of death. A woman's. 

A year ago, for some unknown reason, women were dying left and right. My mom was one of the last survivors.

So am I. 

Everyday the newspapers counted the number of females left in the world.

Today's count? 82. 

Dad finished signing the papers and unwillingly handed them to the doctor. As the doctor walked upstairs to my mother's room, Dad and I sat on the couch desperately hugging each other. 

"Mr. Jenkins? Do you want to say a last goodbye?" The doctor's voice echoed down the stairway. Dad's eyes darted to me, asking my opinion. I latched onto his hand and stood up. Together, we climbed the stairs, and drug our feet to Mom's room. She glanced at us.

"It's okay." Her voice cracked. She gave a weak smile. Not a fake "I'm okay" smile, a genuine one. 

Dad stroked her hair as I held her hand. The doctor readied his deadly shot.

"I love you." We all said at once. The doctor stuck the needle into her skeletal arm. Her body went limp. My dad lost it. He cried into her hair while repeating, "No, this can't be happening."

I kissed Mom's head and told her goodbye. It didn't seem real. In my head, I still believed that she was alive, that she would get better. But no woman ever did. They disintegrated until they were nothing. 

The count was now 81.

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