Page 244 of Rage

Milk dripped across your face and the offending flavor further instigated your fight. Within each drop was a memory, of lives taken, of spirits broken, of souls trapped to serve Mother and Child.

You wheezed as the liquid went down the wrong pipe, flailing as one arm broke free and settled around the very tangible heel of your father’s old gun.

In one movement you swung, landing a blow directly to the side of his head, knocking him aside. The Mother screeched at him to get up, but blood streamed out the side of his head and he lay still.

You turned slowly, the world fading in and out. Everything was spinning. Three heads became six, then nine.

But your grip on the gun kept you focused.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

You weighed it in your hand. Three times for good measure. Three times for three shots.

Your pa had taught him how to shoot, and he’d decided to teach you too.

The first landed squarely in the left daughter’s head, which twitched slumped forward, another right through the skull, bits of it landing and scratching The Mother’s eyes, the last you saved for the crone herself. Not a kill shot, no. She’d sit with her dead for a while before she bled out. So you aimed for the chamber directly above her heart.

You watched blood ooze from the dead and the dying. The first drop hit the fire still burning from the match and ignited.

He groaned and your heart leapt, first in happiness then in fright. Your steps were cautious and you knelt, the old Remington still in hand.

Behind you, The Mother twitched, engulfed in flames, embers of flesh flying into the night. He stared ever so curiously, watching them burn and fly.

“What are you thinking of?” you asked, keeping your distance.

His clear eyes made contact with yours and he smiled and replied,

“Butterflies.”

---