Fragments

Then

I stare at my mother.

The world to me is a blur of red and black. My arms find themselves around her, but they are too small and too weak to keep the life and warmth in her.

"No," I whisper. Then, louder - "No!"

I reach up to her neck and search for her pulse, feeling through the sticky smears of blood and sweat, but her skin is still. There is no beat to signify a living heart. Just stillness - silent, terrible stillness.

There is some warmth, but it's fleeting. It's gone into the night air, and just like that, I am left with a corpse.

A reverse birth. Sixteen years ago my mother was the one cradling me. Now she is dead in my arms.

I want to scream.

Instead, I rock back from the body and rush towards the sink before throwing up in it.

I try to wash the vomit away, but when I reach for the chrome tap I see my bloody hands reflected on its surface, warped and red, like some monster's claws. I scream.

My feet stumble over themselves as I back away, sobbing. Through my tears I see nothing but red - red dripping off the kitchen sink, red smeared on the floor, on my hands, on my skin, under my nails, at the back of my lids every time I try to blink it away.

I can't escape it.

My sobs become strangled breaths.

I can't escape it.

I can't escape it I can't escape it I can't - I can't -

I rush out of the room and stumble towards the couch, gasping. My hands leave even more red on the fabric, but I fall into it, no longer able to stand.

My mother is dead.

I killed her.

I'm alone.

It's my fault.

It's her fault.

Run.

Every realisation breaks me into even smaller fragments. Half-thoughts are running and looping through my brain, each of them hitting me hard. I can't seem to gather them, to form them into wholes and plans and actions.

I hold my head in my hands to keep it from falling apart.

I breathe, in and out. The screams are clawing out from my throat but I clamp my mouth shut and press my nails into my palms, keeping them in.

Run.

I stand up from the couch and start to pace, trying to reason with the frantic voices in my head. She's dead, and I killed her. There's nothing I can do about it now.

I close my eyes and stop the wave of nausea by putting my fist to my lips. A few seconds later, I feel better; I unclench my fist and start to move again.

Run.

That's what she said with her last breath, and she was right.

The chip would activate itself twenty-four hours later and immediately notify the medics; it's a safety feature meant to counter the chip's temporary disablement. They'd come by and they'd see her body and her last chip status and realise that she wasn't Fragmenting when I killed her. The self-defense act no longer applies to my case, and I'll be convicted as a murderer and sent to die; no trial, no prison sentence, just an injection, and it's all over.

I have to run.

I rush into my room and take out a backpack. Clothes, a torch, maps, a cap, a pair of shades, an umbrella and some money - all these I stuff into the backpack. I zip open the pockets and pour the contents of my piggy bank into them. No cards, just cash, even if they are coins. I search my drawers for any leftover train tickets. I can't use my student ID card, unless I want them to find me, and I can't buy any more tickets.

What else do I need? Food?

A change of clothes. I strip, wipe my bloodied hands on my already red-streaked pyjamas, and pull on a pair of trackpants and a long sleeved shirt. For the nights, in case it rains, or if it gets cold, a grey, faded jacket with pockets on the outside and even more pockets lining the inside.

Food.

I look up. I have to go into the kitchen and face the body and the blood once more. I don't want to - I can't.

I'm sorry, I think.

I just can't.

I roll my clothes into a bloodied bundle and stuff it into a plastic bag. They'll find my fingerprints all over her body, and throwing my clothes out won't do much good, but it feels better this way.

I go out of the room, backpack hitched higher up my shoulders, and into the bathroom. I wash my hands to clean the smell of rust and death off them, and search the medicine cupboard for the brown henna my mother uses to dye her hair. I take it and rip it open.

My hands move in a frenzy. I've done this a million times for her and by memory they do the work methodically. When I look up I see myself - eyes blank, face haggard, hair hanging in limp and wet but brown locks.

I towel my hair dry. I look into the mirror. What else, what else?

I run my hand through my hair. It's long - it goes down to my navel. Cut it, a voice suggests.

I agree.

I grab some scissors and start cutting. The scissors are blunt, so I do it messily, sometimes pulling my hair out. I don't care, though. When I'm done I brush my hair and pull it back from my face.

I realise I can't bear to look at myself.

My hands drop to my side, letting my hair hang loose and just below the swell of my breasts. My new haircut obscures my face. From a distance, I don't think I'd be recognisable.

From a distance, the same voice whispers.

I know. I can't run forever. But for now, running will have to do.

But where to?

No countries exist, since borders were abolished the year we realised that there was something out there against humanity itself. The lines on the map no longer seperate nations - they seperate the humans from the inhuman. The United Forces' governing powers do not exceed those lines. They won't care for those who venture out from Safe Zones. Those foolish enough to wander from the fenced borders of established Safe Zones deserved to die, anyway.

Those foolish enough, like me.

That's where I need to go. The wilds beyond the Safe Zones.

I rush out of the bathroom, my hair now dry. My hurried footsteps are too loud in the midst of death and silence.

I spot the keys on a hook behind the door and take them. I'll lock up, just so they won't find her body yet. I'll lock up, just to buy me some time.

I'll lock up, just because it feels like there's something left in this flat - like there's something left for me to come back to.

You know there isn't, says the voice, sad-like.

I push it out of my head and head out.