The End of The (Blood)Line

*CONTAINS: GORE, SLIGHT SELF-HARM, SLIGHT SELF-HATE*

I sigh. Every day is the same for me by now. Wake up, go to school, try to survive. The landowner Chelsea pities me, I know it — she doesn’t charge me extra when I forget to pay the mortgage. Both my parents died in a car accident a few years back, and their funeral was the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. I had to switch schools when I was evicted because I didn’t know how to pay. I went through multiple foster homes until I was eighteen and old enough to live on my own. I found a cheap apartment and Chelsea taught me how to pay and manage my online expenses. I started school again, but this time I didn’t strive to make friends.

Now I’m in the second semester, and I recently bought a diary so I don’t have to mope around at home all the time. There’s this cool pencil that came with it, and I actually kind of like it. I know, I know, it sounds weird. But there’s just something about it…

I’m craving some ice cream right now, but I just ran out of pocket money. Cash, that is. I only pay with it since I don’t trust myself with a credit card. I take out my new diary and start writing.

Dear Diary, I’m out of cash. That means I can’t buy anything. I wish the ATM at the bank near school would open again since it’s closed right now. Then I could get some money and buy ice cream. School’s boring like always, and nobody comes up to me, which I like. Chelsea is nice enough, but I’m sure she’s just here for my money.

I close the notebook, satisfied with my entry. I climb onto my mattress on the floor and pull my mother’s quilt over me. When I wake up the next morning from my shrill alarm clock, my movements are robotic and automated like always. I get a bowl of cereal after dressing and turn on the TV against my better judgement. The news comes on immediately, and what catches my attention are the warning signs around my bank.

The camera zooms in on an ATM, an ATM that’s been cracked open. It’s unnatural, nothing a human or animal could do. The police are looking into it, but the cameras they’ve already checked show nothing. Literally. Apparently, the screen went black for five seconds and the ATM was already destroyed when it became visible again. I shut off the television and write a short entry in my diary.

Dear Diary, the ATM got split open sometime last night, and the police can’t find anything! Anyways, I’m off to a job interview so I don’t have to live off of my parents’ money alone. I wish I wasn’t so nervous, though! It’s hard enough being young and naïve.

I set the diary down and gather my things to head out. When I get to my interview, however, my heart is pounding in my ears and a hellishly violent shaking takes over my whole body. I can’t continue like this. I rush to a nearby bench and try to steady my breathing. The time frame for my interview has already passed when I’m finally able to stand without collapsing immediately.

I head home, hanging my head in despair. My anger takes over once I walk through the door, though, and I throw my keys across the room. I slam my head against the wall, sobbing before I grab my diary up again and start writing furiously.

I HATE MYSELF!! WHY COULDN’T I JUST BE CALM?! WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS?!

I know I’m overreacting a bit (okay, maybe a lot), but I can’t help it! I wanted to NOT be nervous, and instead I had a full-blown panic attack! I freeze. It’s just like with the ATM. I wished for it to open… and it did. Okay, now I have to test it. My diary makes its way back into my hands for the third time today, as well as the pencil.

I wish there was someone who cared about me. I wish there was someone to hold me securely in their arms. I wish my mother was alive.

There’s a sharp knock on the door that makes me jump. I don’t notice the smell at first, but then it starts creeping under the door and into my nose. What is that? I stand up and walk to the door, the foul smell only increasing. Like rotten flesh. The thought shoots through my mind and I hesitate at the door. I open it after a moment, and then I scream. The figure in front of me is a corpse.

The skin — if you can call it that — is gray and barely hanging on to the bones I can see with my own eyes. There’s already parts ripped open and dropping onto the ground in front of me, and the eye sockets are empty. A rictus grin adorns the face in front of me, and the head tilts farther to the side than any living creature can. The jewelry stuck on the wrists all have the same engraving — J.R.

Otherwise known as Johanna Retrial. My mother. The mother that died years ago on the way back from her vacation. I can’t help thinking whether my father is here, too.

She lunges at me, her ragged nails scraping against my skin. I push her away, but she lunges again, wrapping me in a suffocating hug. I scream for help, but the only person that comes is her. I scream my lungs out, but her hand silences me. She squeezes me until I hear a rib crack. And then two. And then five. And then her hands are on my head, turning my neck and breaking that too.

The last things I see are my father grinning over my mother’s shoulder and the endless voids where her eyes used to be.