The Constant Door

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. Not before the dawn. No matter how she begged.

Mother reminded Charlie constantly.

"If you open the door you will surely die, just like your poor brothers.”

Mother made sure he understood.

She showed him the pictures. The pictures of Jimmy and Mark, all torn to pieces.

She made him hold their bloody clothes.

He wanted to remember his brothers smiling, but he was beginning to forget how they looked before.

All he could picture now were the bite marks— the red, wet holes.

Maybe that’s the way their faces had always looked. All chewed up. Missing parts. Never smiling.

He wishes she’d never shown him the pictures. Wishes she’d never dropped their still damp shreds of clothing into his hands.

It had taken him hours of scrubbing to wash away the tacky feel of their blood on his skin.

And his tears had mingled with the foamy pink water and he had hated her then.

But deep down he’d known: mother hated herself more.

Thirty minutes before dusk, her eyes were bulging and yellow— the way they always were before the change.

Her lips were drawn too tight over her teeth, her voice was guttural, harsh.

Like a bark:

“Do not open the door!”

She pressed the key into his palm.

“Lock it behind me! And… take this.”

A revolver.

He recoiled. Shook his head.

She pierced him with those amber eyes: “please Charlie, take it. Just in case. I can’t bear the thought of…. Not again. Not you.”

A tear traced her cheek like a streak of moonlight.

He locked her in and listened to her mournful howls.

He held the revolver and the key

He contemplated the silver.

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And here's the song I was listening too: