Mother

By Draconias Galactica

2002 Draconias Galactica

Here's a breakdown of my mom's life. She was born, and twenty-seven years later, when she was starting her life, the firestorm came around. All of a sudden, her life was changed. Now she was just another dirtpusher trying to survive in this God-forsaken wasteland. Four years after the storm, I was born. I'll give you a breakdown of my dad's life. He came into my mom's house, fucked her brains out, and then disappeared. My mom was too lonely to kill me, so I was born. If I ever find my father, I'd thank him for siring me by blowing his brains out with my shotgun.

I think that's wrong, though. I'm a bit insane. I'm not sure if I'm sane or not, so I figure I must be at least a bit nuts. My mom taught me about the world. One thing she taught me was how to aim and shoot a gun. She taught herself that after my dad did her ten-minute invasion of her life. Another thing she taught me was about my conscious. My conscious is some sort of voice inside my head that tells me what's right and what's wrong. A voice inside my head tells me what to do - does that make me nuts?

My mom went nuts, slowly. After my dad - he did a lot in just ten minutes - screwed her, she started to go. People said she started hearing voices. Some of them told her to kill every man she saw. Others told her to kill herself. The voices, people say, didn't say much that didn't involve killing. By the time I was ten, she was gone completely. She had started to cry about how so many people had died, along with who she should have been. This person she should have been would have had a child the proper way. This person she should have been would have grown to a ripe old age, and wouldn't have to kill so many things - and people - to survive. I was getting sick and tired of watching her live the way she didn't want to. So, I did the only thing I could think of. At age ten, I took my shotgun and painted the walls of our fallen-apart 'house' with my mother's brains.

Conscious yelled at me to stop while I was aiming. I told him shut up, I have work to do. I can't stand seeing her life this, I said. I told Conscious this was right. I told Conscious this was better than what was happening to her right now. Conscious told me to put the gun down. Conscious and I argue a lot, then and now. Regardless, she got the shell in the head. Looking back, it probably wasn't the right thing to do. That's the problem with the world now - you're not supposed to do the right thing if you want to survive.

Surviving usually means shooting whoever has something you need and they can't defend. You have to kill to get meat. You have to eat meat to survive. Surviving is wrong, because you're doing the wrong things. Killing brahmin is wrong. Fucking them is worse. Fucking is how you make lil' brahmin. Making lil' brahmin is how the species as a whole survives. Species surviving is wrong because every member (or at leas the male half) is doing the wrong thing. Conscious told me half of this stuff, and I figured the other half out on my own. He never told me how to survive by doing the right things.

My mom use to say, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all." She also used to say things about how people grow hair and teeth under the full moon. I've never given a whole lot of credit to what my mom said. But if Conscious doesn't tell me what to do soon, I'm going to start ignoring him completely.

Kill, then eat. Fuck, then leave. Repeat process. This is survival's formula. Is surviving right? Considering idiot animals do it, I'd guess so. Then why is killing wrong? Why is fucking wrong? My mom used to cry at night, when she thought I was sleeping. She would always mutter something about dad. She never really got over what he did. She just pretended to. Or maybe she was only sane at night, and the person who taught me all the stuff about how to take care of myself was crazy mom.

I don't know how things were before the firestorm. I just know how the firestorm started. Some people apparently decided that survival was wrong. So they wiped out the species. I don't know how many people decided that survival was wrong. It doesn't take the whole body to kill itself. It just takes the brain to decide to kill, and the arm & hand to use the gun. The rest of the body doesn't get a say in the matter. Who was the brain? Who was the arm & hand? I don't know. Did Conscious know them? Did Conscious tell them to stop, or to continue? I don't know that either.

Conscious is telling me what I'm doing right now is wrong. I'm standing over a guy, holding a gun to his head. This guy tried to fuck me while I was sleeping. Survival of the species. So would that have made it right? Maybe, maybe not. You do the wrong things to get the right thing done, so is the right thing right? The other half of survival is eating. You kill to eat. You eat to survive. Survival of the individual. That's where the gun comes in. I woke up as he was ripping off my pants. I grabbed my shotgun and smacked him in the side of the head with it. And now I'm standing above him, gun in my hand, pants only halfway there now.

So the question is, is killing him right? Mom said killing was wrong. But I killed her. Conscious says killing is wrong. But I need meat to survive. And then there's me, slowly understanding why my mom was always so upset. That's the part of me I'm using to justify killing this ass. It's not morally right - killing is wrong. It's not right in the survival sense, since I can get meat elsewhere and I'm not starving yet. But...

...I just decided something. I'm sick of being crazy. I'm going to start ignoring that stupid voice inside my head, and go with what the voice inside my gut tells me. And that voice says for me to do whatever I want. Survival is wrong, and thus I'm already wrong for just existing. So who the hell cares what I do? I don't know how things were before the firestorm, but I think I just figured out the way things are now. People do what they want now. And I just don't care what's right anymore.