Red Eye

Part Fifteen

I'm staring at my phone in shock, trying to figure out if this is even real. It continues to buzz, MOM lighting up the screen as the call waits to be answered. Shaking myself out of my daze, I swipe at the screen and put the call on speaker mode.

The empty void is suddenly enveloped in something I haven't heard in a very long time. The voice on the other end of the line is my mother's. My Mom. She's talking... to me.

"I'm soo sorry sweetheart... I didn't know who else to call... "

I still can't believe it. It's her, it's really her.

"Thank God I got through. We only just got service back. The power went out. I tried calling everyone... the police, the hospital. All the lines were busy. No one would answer. They couldn't help... they can't help! There's nothing they can do. It's too late..."

My mouth has gone dry, there's a lump in my throat that refuses to go away every time I try to swallow. My hands go clammy and the phone begins to slide against my wet palm as I hold it close to my chest.

"I don't even know if you can hear me..."

I can't speak. My mouth is forming the words but nothing is coming out. I want to tell her I can hear her, that I'm here... and how much I've missed her. 

"It's your father... Something's wrong."

My heart drops into my stomach and a wave of nausea hits me. I already know what she's going to say. She's taking her time, trying to lead up to it, stall as much as she can. She had probably hoped she would never have to say what she's about to now. As much as I'm dreading what she has to say, there's nothing I can do to stop the words from coming. She doesn't want to tell me but she has to. This is something that needs to be said out loud, no matter how painful. 

"He's... sick... He's..."

I can hear her choking on the words, the distress in her voice. She's fighting back tears.

"He's been infected. He's... he's one of them now. One of those things!"

A pause. I can hear her muffled crying. I can picture her covering her mouth with her hand as she tries to compose herself, shoulders slumped and shaking as she tries to convince herself the world isn't crumbling around her. The realization has probably just hit her. All this time spent trying to deny it, wasting precious opportunities to try to prevent it by pretending he was just in one of his bad moods again. Like with everything in our family, she tried to shrug it off. She'd gotten so used to sweeping things under the rug that this was just another thing she tried to hide so she wouldn't have to worry about it and get upset. 

They probably thought it wouldn't happen to either of them. Probably figured as long as they stayed inside, kept the doors and windows locked, that it wouldn't find them, that it couldn't get in. They thought they were safe. But they were wrong. 

"I... He's locked in the basement... I didn't know what else to do. He was soo angry... and his eyes... his eyes! I've never seen that kind of red before."

A flashback of the Red Eye that tore through this place replays itself in my mind and I'm reminded of the terror it instilled in me. Mom probably didn't understand what was happening. She probably heard things on the news, first-hand accounts of how the virus spreads, symptoms to watch out for. I had only seen the end result where she had witnessed the full-blown transformation. She was probably confused, scared, horrified. She had to watch her husband, the man she had spent years of her life with... turn into a creature of unimaginable rage. She had to watch the love of her life turn into something she no longer recognized. 

A loud crashing noise in the background startles me. Mom lets out a shriek.

"He's escaped..." she breathes.

A booming growl rumbles through the phone and heavy footsteps begin to pace. Then more loud crashes. He's tearing through the living room. The table-side lamp shattering against a wall. Couch cushions being ripped. Bookcases and tables being violently tipped over. Another few heavy steps into the kitchen and the sound of plates breaking against the floor, cabinet doors being pulled off their hinges. I can hear Mom's rapid breathing. She's running. I can hear her huffing as she climbs the stairs, the creaking floorboards as she scurries down the hallway, the squeak of the deadbolt lock inside the bathroom, the shower curtain rings sliding across the pole. She's probably crouched inside the tub, surrounded by that ugly blue plastic curtain as her only means of protection.

If you can't see them, they can't see you.

It's not the best hiding spot and she probably knows that. Admittedly, it was the easiest to get to. She could have gone through the window and made a run for it. But the fall would have given her a twisted ankle or broken wrist. She could have gone to the master bedroom, propped the vanity against the door and hidden underneath the bed. But that piece of furniture would be too heavy for her to move... even Dad and one of the moving crew guys threw out their backs trying to get it into the room. The attic would be even worse- no light, low ceiling, loose floorboards. 

"Honey... Oh dear God... If you can hear me..." she whispers, her voice trembling.

The stairs groan under the weight of Dad's steps as he makes his way up. She knows she's going to get caught, that he's going to find her. All he needs to do is continue his way upstairs, break down the door, pull back the curtain and she's a goner. Mom whimpers.

"If you can hear me sweetheart.... I'm sorry... for everything..."

Tears form in the corner of my eyes and that lump in my throat grows heavier. 

"I'm sorry that we couldn't be what you needed us to be. Your father and I. I'm sorry we couldn't understand and that we didn't try hard enough."

The tears stream down my cheeks. Cold and unrelenting. With my free hand, I throw my glasses onto the ground and burying my face into my palm, pleading for the darkness I find there to swallow me whole and take me away from this awful place.

"Parents always make mistakes. We never want to admit that we do but we make them anyway. I'm sorry.... I'm sorry that we failed you."

Dad's enraged pounding on the door shakes me from my trance. He's fiddling with the lock, throwing his weight against the solid wood that's beginning to splinter and snap, the hinges squealing as they pathetically try to cling to the frame.

"I'm sorry that we didn't do right by you!" she shouts over the noise of Dad breaking down the door, "I'm sorry that we made you feel... that we..."

She screams and I nearly drop the phone as the echo shatters my eardrums. He's broken through. The crinkling of the plastic sounds like static over the phone, the metal rings bounce and roll against the floor as he violently rips away the shower curtain. I can hear them struggling, hands slapping against flesh, groans of discomfort and yelps of resistance, the smashing of tile. 

My mother's voice once again, shouting at the top of her lungs. Her final words.

 I don't know if they're meant for me or for him. 

"I love you soo much sweetheart. Please forgive me."