Decay of the Womb

Prologue

A trail of plaster filtered out from the crack in the ceiling, showering the man resting beneath it. His dark coat became dusted with white powder, a sprinkle catching his face and hair. He sat up straight and shook his head, brushing it all away with a frail hand. The man was old, the plaster indistinguishable against the colorless beard that coated his gaunt face, all framed by shoulder-length wavy hair of the same hue. He tossed the coat into the corner near the rest of his belongings. The heat had picked up outside.

He wandered to the window of the abandoned home and looked out into the street. No shops bustling with tourists and customers, no children running and playing in the town square. It was silent. He remembered a time before it was this way. But it was long ago. Now, the less people he encountered, the better.

The man walked to his things, the wooden floor cool against his bare feet. He sat crossed-legged in the corner and rustled through his pack. He pried open a jar of barley sugars and popped one into his mouth. The sweets still held their flavor after all these years, though they hurt his teeth. At this point, he could care less about the pain. He looked down and caught sight of his revolver, the barrel just peeking out of the bag. He stared at it for a time, the sound of his own breathing filling his ears. It was as if the weapon was calling to him, tempting him to draw it out. He obliged, turning it over in his hands. He pushed out the cylinder and span it, looking down at the mere single round loaded inside. It was not enough to defend himself if he needed to. He had little intention to use the weapon outwardly though. He snapped it back in and spun it once more. He put the barrel in his mouth, the sharp taste of the metal making his tongue retract in disgust. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

The revolver let out an empty click. The man exhaled. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. It had become his morning ritual, forcing his hand in whether to press on or let his journey end. He was too stubborn to rig the shot and go out that way. It needed to be the revolver's choice. Even so, he knew the mathematical odds in that the gun should have fired the round by now. He had worked it out. After this many cycles, he had no business remaining a passenger of this desolate Earth. He didn't deserve this fate, this waiting. Or perhaps he did, after all he had done. The thought of it all began to frustrate him. He needed a distraction.

He tossed the revolver back into the pack. He brushed past a thick book that was adorned with gold letters against a navy cover, and clasped a bundle of envelopes with careful fingers. The man stood and made his way to a decayed piece of furniture. The mauve material was torn, stuffing and springs bursting from the seams. It creaked as he sat, despite how little he weighed. He rested the papers in his lap as he unwound the band keeping it all together. The thickest envelopes were on the outside, protecting those that were more precious in the middle of the stack. A handful fell to the floor, but it didn't matter. The one of faded pink, the one that stood out against the rest, was the one he needed.

For Daddy, it read. He sniffled as he turned it over, a sharp pang of sorrow driving its way into his chest. A sticker of a bumblebee held the envelope shut. He hooked a fingernail under it and pried it open with a careful pull. He removed a slip of paper from inside. A sense of tranquility took over him, transporting him away from his current whereabouts. The paper unfolded into a splay of different coloured crayon, grass and flowers and sun scribbled against the page, all preserved as if it had been drawn only recently. He held it only by the corners to ensure it stayed that way. The sky was a mere zigzag of blues, from one side to the other. It had been the last addition, as it mixed into the greens and reds and yellows in some areas. Not due to carelessness, but to childish ignorance. It made him smile. A flood of memories from another time washed over him, of teaching his daughter to read and write and draw. She had been so impatient, becoming frustrated at not being able to achieve what she wanted right away. He was reminded of this by the rough scrawl of blue, as a small arrow in the corner pointed to it labelled 'sky', in case he mistook it for something else. A quiet laugh escaped him at the thought of her cranky, scrunched up face. It quickly turned to a sob. He struggled to swallow, his stomach cold and his vision blurry. He wiped his eyes on his shoulder with a heavy breath. He took one last long glance at the page before folding it away, carefully matching the corners and sliding it back into the envelope. He missed his daughter. It was the sole item he had left to remember her. Not that he could ever forget her. Yet having the drawing with him made it feel as though she was with him. He swapped the envelope into his lap for another less colorful one. He removed a crumpled piece of notepaper from inside. It was in a poor state, but only because it was much older. It meant just as much as the sketch.

It was littered with random sentences and drawings, small groups of words and sketches set out on every few lines. Only two inks were used: black and blue. The first he recognized as his own penmanship, messy and barely readable. The latter was a masterclass in calligraphy. Every letter was perfectly executed in a cursive script with flawless design. It had began as a piece of note-taking paper in a virology class, the symptoms and reactions of various diseases taken down in a paragraph. In then trailed off, a back-and-forth exchange of flirtatious remarks filling the sheet. He remembered very little about this class. Only that he knew it was when he fell in love with her. The double-sided page was dotted with the silly jabs and immature drawings. The man smiled at the utter idiocy of them, one in particular forcing a snicker. It wasn't even slightly amusing, but they had always had a fondness for wordplay, and lame wordplay at that. "We have great chemistry!" one section read in blue ink, a series of beakers and pipettes sketched underneath. At the bottom of the page, a heart had been drawn in both colored inks. The blue expertly created the right side, while the black scratched in the opposite. And in the most cliche of ways, they had written their initials inside, complete with an arrow firing through it.

The man felt heavy. He almost felt sleepy, the dread and longing for his family like an anvil over him. He always felt this way when he leafed through the past, but it helped him to elude the callused world that he now called the present. It was a wasteland of dead. Devoid of life and any bliss the old one exuded, the man welcomed any opportunity to neglect it and be beside his loved ones, somewhere else in time. His envelopes completed this task, and almost too well. He nearly missed the sound of the footsteps on the stairs.

The man was no longer alone. His pack and weapon were in the corner, the armchair on the opposite side of the room. Any effort to snatch his things and escape was futile. The stairs were the only way in and out. The heavy stomps were closer. He could hear the intruder humming to himself. And he was motionless. He had to move. He bent down to grab the other envelopes, attempting to make a loose and messy stack in his hands. He dropped them in his haste. He reached forward to pick them up. He was too late. A pair of boots appeared at the very edge of his vision, standing in the doorway. The man sat back in the armchair. 

A young male stood across from him. He was short and thin, a knot of dark brown hair tied atop his head. A pair of snow goggles covered his eyes, a blue and gold polarized lens reflecting the room back to the man. He could see himself, old and afraid and exhausted, cowered against the backing of the chair. He almost didn't notice the crudely fashioned sawn-off shotgun in the boy's hand. He could tell by his demeanor that he was not alarmed, nor threatened by his presence. An elderly man with no weapon. All he had were his letters. He looked down at them, the notepaper on top. In a moment of sheer dread, he couldn't help but smile at the sad puns and the hand-drawn heart. He looked up at the boy, who smirked back.

He raised the shotgun and fired a single round. The man felt searing pain, and then nothing. The bullet fragments tore through his face and chest, his body jolting in the armchair. His head fell limp on his chest, a lifeless groan escaping his mouth. Most of his letters had fallen to the floor. Save for the notepaper and drawing. Once, they had been unspoiled and precious. 

But on this morning, they were crimson with blood.