by B.R. Paulson
***
When I woke I wasn’t in my bed at home with the realization everything had been a dream.
No, I woke when the door between the rooms creaked open then clicked shut. I stared at the wall in the gray of the night while my mom crossed the floor. I waited for the bed to dip with her weight, but it never did.
Her restrained sobs rocked the bed softly. A slight shaking from the end of the mattress suggested she leaned on the foot.
I lifted my head carefully to check on her.
Simple moonlight spilled through the window revealing my mother’s kneeling form at the foot of the bed. Her folded hands steepled above her head. She hid her face as she cried into the blanket.
While I had been angry at Mom, sad about Dad and Braden, and confused about the whole war and escape thing – even as prepared as we were – an emotion I hadn’t had to deal with consumed me.
Hate.
I have never hated anyone. Or anything.
Right there, as I lay in that bed, my hatred encompassed Charlie.
And God.
