For the Weak

Chapter 2: Home Cooking

I follow her gaze out of my window, and what I saw rocked me to the core:
   The man from earlier. He'd somehow gotten taller, teeth like razors and spindly hands reaching for my door. I panic and hit the locks, still struggling with the keys as he grows closer. Abagail, in a moment of clarity, outstretches a hand, grasps the keys, and finally gets them into the ignition. I turn it confidently, and the car roars to life. The man from the motel doesn't back off until I turn on the headlights, which bathe him and the concrete behind him in a blinding pale yellow. As it does, Abagail covers her ears, almost as if she's in severe pain. My foot crashes onto the gas as I reverse out of there.
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My eyes are glued to the road, the tarmac ahead winding and bending as the car races along. After about an hour, I shift my gaze slightly to Abby, who is peering listlessly out her window into the deep green thicket. I tap her gently on the shoulder, still partially looking at the road before signing:
      'You okay? It's a crazy thing that happened back there..'
She silently nods before replying:
      'Yes, the whole thing just doesn't sit right with me..It seems that he's gone, thankfully.'
There's a break in her signage, like she's thinking, before she continues:
      'We should really find a place to rest. I don't think that man is coming back.'
I can't help but nod in agreeance. The day took a lot out of us, and after the kerfuffle at the Motel 7, I knew neither of us would be able to trust an inn for the next month.
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A few hours later, we slowly roll to a halt at a small campground. I didn't realize what time it was, but as I looked at the rising sun I began to sigh. We spent all night driving, half of it running from some...creep. 'It doesn't matter' is the last thought to fill my head as I drift into the sweet succour of sleep.
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I'm back in the woods, like my dream before, but I'm not running this time. Instead, I'm looking down at Abagail. Her face looks as though it's been stomped in, then peeled off. Her neck is distended, like she swallowed coke and mentos before dying, and it's fully stretched out. Her clothes are torn to shreds, and her hair is completely soaked in blood. You can't tell the color of anything, as it's all coated in a thick layer of gore. I try to pick her up, but when I hear a soft crack, I realize it'd be best not to. My fingers move to her hair, wrapping around a strand of deep, red tresses. I start to cry, my tears soaking her mangled face, my digits growing sticky with her drying blood. I can barely pay attention to that, as the sirens from before return. The loud, piercing music that echoes from each police car in the distance reverberating against each tree and bush. It creates a sort of disorienting feeling whenever I try to pinpoint their location. The nauseating shrieks from each one only grows louder, and I feel like my ears are going to burst if I sit out here with her any longer. For some reason, I don't want my sister to get help. The glow of the police lights glare upon us, casting a soft - yet intense - red and blue incandescence through the open air, glimmering against the grass. As soon as I see the first police cruiser roll into view, I peer directly into the headlights...
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I wake to the sun glaring directly into my eyes and Abagail aggressively shaking me. I wipe the dust from my eyes and gently push her away from me before checking the time. It's only 10 a.m, so I figure that we have a while before we need to see mom. After stopping quickly at some random fast food joint, and pushing all thoughts from last night out of my head, we start back on the road. There's almost no traffic, the pavement is smooth, and the air is calm as we meander through the last 2 hours of our trip.

_______________Mom's House____________________

The tires struggle up the gravel-covered hill as we pull towards mom's house; a large, slate-gray mansion that we had built back in 1871. Beautiful vines of ivy climb the cobblestone walls, and the yard is filled with flowers and fruit bushes. Once we park, I noticed our mother sauntering into her front porch. Her dark brown hair is pulled neatly into a bun, clear-rimmed glasses resting gently against her caramel-colored nose. Her ice blue eyes stare stoically at our car as her gloved hands press her pearl-white lab coat against her black turtleneck. Shifting impatiently, just as she did when we were kids, her deep gray godet skirt flows against her Frankenstein boots. She's been waiting.
I can smell her home cooking from here.