Camp Fire

By Christina Nelson

“It’s so cold,” I look down, what is this? It smells like blood. “Mom, dad, don’t go!” “Aaaah!” I scream only to find myself in bed, mom is still sleeping. I take a few deep breaths to remind myself that it was only a dream. In my mind I know that the nightmare I just had, all of it could become reality and it could happen at any time. “Maddie?” Mom says confused and tired while she lets out a yawn. “Oh sorry I didn’t mean to wake you up, go back to sleep.” I say, feeling bad. Mom never gets enough sleep. She works for 17 hours a day at the local hospital. We live in a tiny bungalow in the poor and dangerous side of town. I’ve heard mom say many times before that this place is an anarchy but when I asked her what it means she changed the subject. I don’t have the opportunity to go to school so I pick up whatever I can here and there. “Come here,” she replies, sounding more awake than before. I lie down beside her while she pulls the tattered blanket over my body. I turn to look at her, a wave of sadness flows over me. She has dark lines all over her face and she looks much older than she is.

After a few minutes pass I decide it’s time for me to get up to prepare lunch, we only have enough to eat one meal a day, but mom always insists that I eat her fill. Today she doesn’t have to go to work, it’s a rare occasion so I’m going to treat her to something special. Ever since dad died in the “incident”, mom has had to work continuous shifts so that we don’t starve to death. On the other side of the room is the kitchen and to the right is the front door. I’m not allowed to leave. I never asked why I couldn’t step out, even with mom by my side. I said that this part of town is dangerous because there are many robberies and most of the time they end up in casualties. We have never gotten robbed, though I think it’s only because the other ruffs respected my dad. Ruffs are what the residents of the poverty-stricken side of town have been labeled. I don’t take any offense to it. I have never been called one to my face. I think that I’m not allowed to be curious about anything or be allowed to desire anything more than what we have, but I’m curious, who was my father. “There,” I say as I take out the canned beans. I open it up and to my surprise there is more than usual, I take our two old plates and scoop out most of it onto mom’s plate. I also need to get her to eat her food while she is still half asleep so she won’t complain and tell me to eat more than I need. That’s unusual, I can hear a lot of chatter and sounds of panic, It could be another robbery. Boom boom boom. “Who’s there?” I say subconsciously. Don’t tell me, a robbery! Here? They would knock on the door, wait for us to reply and take everything by force. “Mom! Hurry!” I yell across the room. It happened. The gunshot, they burst through the door, “Mom!” I yell at the top of my lungs. She jumps up right away, another one, it’s so loud the air around me shatters, my ears ringing, there she is, she’s hovering over me, I take a look at her face, she’s in pain, I can tell. The two men with deep voices and black clothing take everything and run off. “Mom? Mom please listen to me,” she’s been shot. But why? I start sobbing, I can’t lose her too. I take one last look at her. she’s smiling? But her face is filled with sadness. Why is this happening, not again. “Dad? Mom needs help. Dad, where are you?” I scream. But deep down inside I know that no one will come, no one will hear my screams of agony. I don’t want to lose her. Is that selfish of me to want to keep her alive in this dreadful, pointless loop we call life. Mom wraps her arms around me as we lay in a pool of blood , it’s her blood , I can feel all of her weight fall on me. She collapsed. No. She’s dead.

End