Against The Darkness (Cimmerian Moon) by A.M. Griffin Read Free Book Online Page A

other. I rest
my face on my hands and she does the same, watching me too. I watch her until her
eyes finally close for the night. When I’m sure that she’s sleep I roll over
onto my side. This position is just as painful as lying on my stomach. Trying to
get comfortable on the cold ground with only a few tufts of grass sprinkled in
among rocks, dirt and twigs is the least of my worries.
    Right about
now is when I again start to have my recurring wish for the gift
of foresight. But I’m sure everyone in the world has probably wished for the
same thing. At least then there could have been some kind of planning. The
military could have been ready for the aliens’ arrival and mounted an attack.
Not only that, but the government could have organized some kind of evacuation.
Although I don’t know to where exactly.
    How do you
evacuate an entire country?
    At any rate,
the gift of foresight would have helped us all. Maybe, with it, my mother
wouldn’t have forced me to go on the stupid field trip. I remind myself how I’d
begged and begged her not to make me go.
    But I bet she
regrets it now, especially since I’m almost a thousand miles away from her
during the worst possible time.
    I know what
I’m doing and I try to hold onto the feeling for as long as possible. If I’m
mad at her then I won’t miss her as much.
    Just as I have
that thought, my eyes begin to water. Being mad at her usually doesn’t last
very long at all. I can’t make it. For all it’s worth, I know she’s regretting
she ever made me go and she’s missing me just as much as I’m missing her.
    I sniffle back
the trickle of liquid that’s making a trail from my nostril and across my cheek.
Tears fall in fat drops from the corners of my eyes. I’m crying so softly that
I doubt anyone can hear it.
    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
     
    I’m in my
kitchen. My mother’s favorite color—yellow—tints the walls. Stone carvings
of suns, large and small, with a cartoonish artistic flare, are on the walls.
My exams are hung on the refrigerator with magnets, displaying the A’s and A+’s
as though I’m in elementary. My mother stands in front of the stove, her back
to me, and she’s cooking.
    I inhale
deeply. It’s an omelet. Glancing down, I see I’m sitting at our round, four-chair
table. There’s a white ceramic mug in front of me. I pick it up and sip at its
contents.
    Coffee. Ummm .
    She doesn’t
let me drink coffee often, only for special occasions. I don’t know what’s so
special about today, but I don’t ask her. I sip away, savoring the taste and loving
the way it feels going down my throat and hitting my stomach.
    She hums a
song as she begins to scoop my omelet onto the plate, using a spatula. The
smell of eggs, cheese, ham and onions waft my way.
    Grumble,
grumble , my stomach growls.
    She turns,
holding the plate overflowing with a fluffy omelet. Steam rises off the surface.
I lick my lips in anticipation. She’s smiling as she walks to me. The closer
she gets the better that omelet looks and smells.
    Grumble,
grumble , my stomach growls so hard this time it hurts.
    She stops in
front of me and I wait for her to put the plate down, but she just stands there
smiling at me, holding onto it. Not being able to stand it any longer, I reach for
it, but before I can grab it, she pulls away abruptly.
    “Mom?”
    She’s still
smiling, holding the plate out of my range. “This isn’t for you, baby.”
    “But…” I glance
from her to the omelet and then back to her again. “Didn’t you make that for
me? I’m so hungry.”
    “This isn’t
for you because you have to go.”
    “Go? Go
where?”
    “To band
camp.”
    Panic rises
like a storm within me. I can’t go to band camp. There will be an alien
invasion and I’ll be separated from her. She might die…I might die.
    “No, no, no,”
I yell, reaching out for her. But she keeps stepping back, holding up the
plate, with that crazy smile on her face. No matter how close I get to her she
stays out