Ben Bedard - The World Without Flags

I cry out in frustration. I look down at the empty mug and the wet earth where the last of our sugar has vanished. I could die.

“Unh!” says Eric desperately, his black tongue waggling horribly in the emptiness in front of him.

I grab my hair in frustration.

“Unh!” Eric repeats.

“Shut up!” I scream.

“Unh!” Eric repeats. His tongue lashes back and forth like some ominous black flag.

I can’t stand it. I lash out and slap him hard across the face. “Shut up!” I scream.

The force of my slap doesn’t seem to affect him at all. He sits there like before, tongue out, writhing like a snake, but I see the growing red mark where I struck him. I feel sick.

I grab the mug and stumble out of the stall, shutting it behind me. I’m shaking and trembling all over. I’ve never felt so small and petty and hateful. For all I know, Eric could be dead in the morning. And the last thing I did was slap him across the face.

Sobbing with guilt and exhaustion and anger and a whole slew of emotions I can’t even begin to describe, I lumber into the last stall and collapse on the ground. It feels like I fall directly into darkness.

When I wake up, it’s still daylight. I slept so profoundly that it takes me a few seconds to remember where I am and why. For those seconds, I’m confused that I’m not in our cabin in the Homestead. I expect to wake up and look at the roof of our house, to see the sheet that acts like a curtain and separates our beds. I expect to smell breakfast, to hear Eric walking around below in his heavy boots. I expect to get up and work. Then the confusion evaporates and I remember everything. It happens suddenly, like someone opened a curtain in my mind and let the sun in.

Only it’s not welcoming like sunlight. All those people dead. Eric on the edge of death. He and I fugitives from the only home I’ve known. I cringe when I remember the look of surprise and horror on Norman’s face when he thought I shot him. I feel the disgusting thud of striking him with the butt of my gun, how it shook my whole arm up to the shoulders. Then I see the aluminum mug next to me on the stall’s floor and I remember slapping Eric across the face and I blush hotly with shame. In all of our years together, Eric never once raised a hand on me, never once even threatened me. I blush even hotter. I feel sick with shame.

I breathe out slowly and tell myself that it won’t ever happen again. It was because I was exhausted, I tell myself. I lost my temper. It won’t happen again. But I’m scared of myself, scared of what I might do. I’ve never been scared of myself before. It’s a bad feeling, almost worse than the mistake itself.

I have to get up and move. I have to shake myself free of this guilt and shame.

I jump a little in place in my stall.

Bandit hears me moving and he neighs loudly. He’s hungry and needs to be fed. I’m relieved to have something to do. When I lead him outside, I see that it’s late afternoon. The sun is out and warm and the blue sky is filled with great puffs of cloud. The insects are so numerous, they’re like a haze over the golden fields. Taking advantage of them are swooping, darting barn swallows. I tie Bandit loosely to a fence post where there’s a lot of grass, and I watch him shake his mane and bend his neck down to eat. Then I look at the position of the sun. It’s strange for some reason. Shouldn’t it be night? It slowly comes to me that I must have slept much, much longer than I thought. No wonder Bandit was so hungry.

When I look back at the barn, another thought comes to me. It freezes me in place. Did Eric survive? Will I find him sprawled out dead on the floor? I remember his skeletal face and I start to tremble a little. I can’t think of what I would do without him. I’ll never forgive myself if the last thing I did was strike him in anger. I walk around outside a long time before I turn back toward the barn. I have to see. I have to know.

I walk slowly to Eric’s stall. It’s silent in the barn except for the chirping of swallows as they pass in and out through the barn doors. I don’t hear anything coming from Eric’s stall. I move to open it, but my hand stops. I have to prepare. If he’s dead, I have to be prepared. I try to tell myself that maybe it’s not the worst thing. If he’s dead, I could go back to the Homestead. I could apologize to them and hope they understand I did what I did for Eric. I could be safe and warm and not so hungry and exhausted all the time. And I did the best for him. I did everything I could. I begged for him.

But none of that makes me feel prepared.

When I think that I might open the stall door to the corpse of the only father I’ve ever known, I just don’t know if I can live without him. I try to open the stall, but again my hand freezes and I turn around and walk to the barn door nervously. I remember Eric long ago, before the Homestead, before the island, even before Lucia. I was so hungry then too.

I begin to tremble. I haven’t thought about any of this in a long time.

I was just a little girl, alone. I was starving. I found a can of food in a store, but I couldn’t open it. I remember smashing the can against the wall, trying to get it to open. Hitting the can with boards and trying to pierce it open with a screwdriver. I even tried to chew through it. Then Eric came in alone. At first, he walked right by me. He was holding a gun and he scared me. I tried to sneak out but I must have made a sound. When Eric heard me, he whirled around and shot. The sound was so loud that I was shocked and stunned motionless. Eric ran to me and asked me if I was hurt and told me he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to shoot. When he saw I wasn’t hurt, he took out his utility knife and opened the can of food. The smell of the food released me from my terror and I took the can. He watched me as I ate it, and I felt safe again. He has been with me ever since.

When I remember, I think to myself for the first time that Eric didn’t have to help me. I was a stranger. Did he do it just because he was a decent person? Was he lonely? Or did he just feel guilty that he almost shot a starving little girl? I don’t know why he did it. I don’t know why he saved me, why he looked after me. I don’t know why I’ve never wondered that before. I’m scared that I’ll never get to ask him. I’m terrified I’ll never get to thank him for it, and I’m ashamed I’ve never thought of thanking him, not once in all these years together. The regret twists in me like a knife.

I realize there’s no preparation for Eric’s death. There’s only pain.

I just have to do it.

I stride to the stall door and throw it open.

Eric is lying on his stomach. His arms and legs are splayed out wide. His face is on the ground. He doesn’t move at all. Flies buzz around him, drawn to his stench. I step forward and crouch down, listening for the sound of his breathing. I don’t hear anything, but it’s hard to hear through the sound of my own heart beating. I bend down closer to his face. I watch the dirt near his mouth, searching for any sign of breathing, just the merest trembling of dust. Nothing. I reach out fearfully. I’m horrified of touching him, terrified of feeling numb, cold, waxy skin. But I have to know.

I feel his face with my finger.

“Unh,” Eric says. I leap away from him.

“You scared the shit out of me!” I cry, holding my chest as if I’m afraid my heart will crash through my ribcage, it’s beating so hard.

“Unh,” Eric says again. I’m so glad he’s alive, I laugh out loud.

“Yeah, good to see you too!” I exclaim. I roll him onto his back, and then grunt as I pull him up to a sitting position. Eric sits with one shoulder hunched up while he leans forward. He looks like someone is giving him a wet willy and he’s trying to shrug them away. I’m so happy that he’s not dead that I laugh at the sight. I wipe away a tear of relief. “Are you hungry?” I ask him. “I’m starving. I’ll make us some breakfast.”