Will The Winter Never End? by Daniel Davis
Christie knew the moment that one of the boys hurt himself. A sharp pain struck her side, like a rusty nail sinking deep. Not a phantom pain, not something in her mind—real, there, dropping her to her knees as she washed the lunch dishes. She rapped her forehead against the kitchen counter and barely noticed.
They were playing in the naked winter fields. They always did. She told them not to, then watched through the frosted kitchen window as they struck northward, towards the grove of trees surrounded by mud and snow. Their father wasn't home; he was in town at the gas station getting coffee and talking with the clerk. It was just her and the dog to mind the boys, and at her age the dog wasn't any good, just laid around and whined and looked at you like you could fix all her ails and were refusing to out of spite. It was just Christie then, and the boys had never listened to her, not once since they crawled out of her, which was how boys were supposed to be.
She pushed herself off the linoleum. She had dishwater and soap all over her shirt, but she ran out the backdoor without even bothering to put on a jacket. North. The trees in the distance, the overcast skies foreboding, heavy. Cold dry air hitting her, encompassing her; mud sucking at her pink furry slippers, a Christmas gift from one of the boys last year. She was screaming, nonsensical. She hadn't straightened her hair that day, and the wind caught the curls, her hair tugging at her scalp as she ran, stumbled. Should use that treadmill more often. Will, if the boys are okay, please God let the boys be okay.
A buzzard cried overhead. Or maybe a hawk, or a crow. She didn't look. She stumbled over a barren row, a giant mole track spanning acres. Fell face-first, dirty snow sputtering up her nostrils. She coughed, gagged, sneezed, tried pushing herself up, but her hands sunk into the mud. Succeeded, finally. Still screaming.
The pain was worse now. It always was. Oh Jesus it was bad. Like tiny barbs digging inside of her, burrowing further. Here's flesh, rend it, rip it, shred it. She was crying, and the tears stuck to her cheeks, drew taught the skin beneath her eyes. Her lungs fought against the cold air she gulped down; the pain spread from her side to her chest, but this was a normal pain, and she could turn it off. No, lungs; keep working. Race, heart, faster, more blood more strength more speed. Feet sticking. Stumble again, harder to get up this time; she was heavier now, the winter sucked inside of her, mingling with the terror, becoming an anchor. She rose against it. Yes; upward, north, the trees. No more screaming—throat raw, ruined. Gasping, just gasping, a ragged noise, the breathing of a sawdust doll. Move. Move. Move.
There are reasons these things happen. We do not know them. Our lives are one thing one moment, another the next. It is a mother's job to protect her offspring, her legacy. She does this selflessly. We are here to protect those we sire, to protect those we bring into this world. Without us, they could not stand against creation. Creation serves to tear man down; we need support to fight against it. This is a mother's job.
The trees ahead, there now. She could barely see—the world a tilting kaleidoscope of chaos, everything moving and shifting and blurring. The pain struck her heart, sunk deep, moved on, crept upward. Bile rose into her throat. She fell against a tree, its cold rough bark drawing blood. A red remainder when she moved on, to the next tree, and the next, colliding against them one after the other. Her legs were weak; the pain in her head now, such a pain, such a blinding white pain.
The boys. There. Looking at her, mouths agape. The younger one knelt in the mud, a toy gun clutched in his hands. The older one stood above him with another gun. A tin sheriff's badge pinned to his jacket. Looking at her too, not believing, not understanding. Mom? The youngest or oldest, youngest or oldest? Mom? Mom?
Oh Jesus. Legs giving way—falling onto them, into them. Be okay, be all right, please please. Clutching them to her. They struggle to get away, to pull back. The youngest one pulls the trigger of his gun against her breast. There is a cheap plastic click. Mom? Mom? Pulling them into her. The pain retreats down and out of her, exiting through the wound it made. She cries, she doesn't feel the cold, she just cries. Mom? Mom? Moment by moment, second by second, the cold grows stronger, the grey winter static sinks in through her pores. They are all right. They are okay. Thank you. Oh God thank you. The pain forgotten now; just her boys and the dead winter afternoon. Mom? Mom?
There are reasons these things happen.
