Spirit Of The End

It Comes in Threes

Tw: mistreatment of human and animal.

::Memory, as remembered from years ago, it's Maria's:: : :

My dad's a freak and a widow. That's one of the limited sentences Granny says to me the rare times I visit her. I also think he is a freak and a 'widow'. I think she means weirdo; that's what Dad and Mom say to me. They didn't have to convince me—I figured it out myself.

Just this year, we've been through three churches, rounded up horses just to sell them the next month, and sold a totally normal cozy homes for an RV.

My dad says it's because, "back then, humans were nomads on all continents. They used this mode of life. There's something about it, and I'll find it." And when my dad wants to 'find' something, it means the rest of the family has to find it too.

Now I have no privacy. It's rarely ever quiet, the bathroom doesn't feel like a bathroom, and I see my dad shirtless every morning. My mom seems to go with whatever flows; she doesn't have much to hold on to.

I often look at Dad's papers since all his boxes are locked with dates that relate to me: my first trip to China, my first time folding my own dumplings, my first gold medal in judo. He's pretty simple, actually—there's just me, China, and money that drive my dad's will. There's always this company called S.T.E that comes up, and in their papers, I always see big numbers with dollar signs.

I think my family is rich.

I'm now washing the clothes outside with tools I don't even know the name of. I know my dad got them from the reserves near our camping station. He goes there for cigarettes, meat, and tools. All come in threes for him.

He has a tattoo on his leg: '333'. At least three iterations of the three wise monkeys. But those are Japanese ("see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil").

I go to see the children at the reserve sometimes when he is not aware. He doesn't like that. My friends there don't like it either, they say it is not my place.

I would invite them over, but my mom is cold and my dad embarrasses me, and the neighbors too.

The neighbors are odd; they hold so many flags on their RV and sometimes daze on their swinging chairs holding hunting guns. I know they're hunting guns since Dad has multiples of the same design. He sometimes takes me to hunt moose and wild birds. I don't like it much.

__________

One time he took me. We'd been camping at the same spot for a while. The air was chilly and thick. The breeze felt good. I turned my hand to have it directly in my face. For a moment, I breathed better.

I was sticky, waiting for him to finish the task so I could shower.

I felt like I was being a bad person for wanting the animal to die just so I could be comfortable.

I munched on salted almonds. I drank orange juice, drawing stars on the ground to make the time pass. I drew buses like the yellow one I've seen a couple of times.

My friends from the reserve say some of them go to school. I kinda get it, but that's never really said at home. Dad taught me how to read later than most, I know that. But I also know a lot, they are things I know more than my friends, like words because of dad teaching me. But they know more about things like animals, what they eat. When I walk with them in the forest it feels as safe as with an adult.

We don't really have internet but dad is on his phone a lot. I think that's normal, just like some people live in RVs and some in normal homes, shacks, or tents.

Dad tells me to be quiet. I freeze. My stomach hurts. I'm bleeding from the inside and it's going outside. It's hazy. I feel like I look like what Dad and Mom look like when they smoke late at night.

I've only rarely seen them up close like that. I stare by the window in secret and hide before they see me.

It's suddenly too cold. I tighten my entire body; if I get all my limbs to freeze, maybe the pain will stop. I learned that I hurt less when I am frozen in place.

I tell Dad I'm nauseous. He puts a finger on my mouth, saying, "Hold it, you're not dying." He doesn't talk, but I know that's what he thinks because I've heard him say deviations of that. I quiet down, trying to hold my bile inside. Every month since I've had it, I hope my body will change and I'll have an easier time, but it never happens—it's always bad. I had it for not long, mom says it's like that even at her age. She says it will get better.

I hope.

By now, I'd be in the shower with hot water or holding the kettle wrapped in cloth. I'd be lying on the floor whining. I can't now. The gun belt rustles. The pops are so loud I forget my body for about ten seconds.

He takes my arm; he wants to inspect the kill.

I don't feel so good. The moose has its eyes rolled back and its tongue hanging out.

"This, my child, is good food." I don't respond.

"In the Bible, the Revelation describes the end times—the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse Conquest, War, Famine, and Death who bring about the final judgment. It's cyclical. It's only after the end that you can find heaven," he continues. Already, flies are landing on the corpse. He is focused, in a trance.

This is too much.

I throw up. I feel the muscles in my diaphragm clenching and pushing down hard on my stomach. I yell. I can barely hold myself as I feel the weird euphoria that comes after vomiting. I feel an ache in my stomach. I tilt my head. My face feels even more sticky; the smell is unpleasant. There's more comming out of my mouth but now it's transparent.

"You know what S.T.E. means? My dear Marie, they don't know it's name." He grins, it's a true grin but I don't see the humor.

"S.T.E. is the Spirit of the End's Spirit of the End." That's the last words I remember from that day.

I'm tired and scared. I'll faint soon. It's fuzzy.

I'm gone.