Scarlet Prison

Chapter 2

Homework. I wasn't sure I would have the brainpower for it after an exciting night of running from the authorities and a long, boring day at school. I readjusted my backpack over my shoulder as I held a faceoff with my front door. Once I walked through it, there'd be no turning back. I would have to do my homework.

The paint was peeling, I noticed. It probably had been for a while, but such a thing was easily overlooked among the shabby homes clustered at the fringe of town. My single story, two bedroom house fit right in with its crumbling peers. It certainly wasn't the worst one in the area, but it had seen better days.

Maybe homework wasn't the real reason I couldn't seem to move from my doorstep. I'd had plenty of late, exciting nights, followed by long, boring days. What made today different was what lay in wait for me tomorrow. The Senior Conference. It was looming just ahead of me, and every step I took brought me closer.

I shuddered and tried to refocus on the task at hand. Homework. It was about to meet its maker. I threw the door open, causing the hinges to scream a battle cry.

"We really need to get that fixed," I announced to no one in particular, as I walked to the fridge.

"Zermia? Is that you?" My mom called from the family room. I still didn't know whether my mom or my dad, Telk, was responsible for the creation of my name. They refused to tell me because they knew the grief I got from it. I, personally, didn't have a problem with my name. I would like it, if not for the fact that I had to correct every new teacher on the pronunciation. The first syllable is like the word "sir," but with a "z." The second syllable is like the word "me." The third syllable sounds like "uh." Zer-mi-a. I really didn't see what was so hard about it.

I grabbed a coke and joined my mom in the family room. Her pistol was dismantled and spread across the coffee table. She was peering into the magazine valve, poised with a q-tip, ready to clear away any signs of grime. As usual, my golden retriever, Max, was resting his head on her knee, while she cleaned her gun. Upon my entrance, he jumped off the couch and trotted over to greet me.

"Mom, didn't you just clean your gun?" I asked, as I rubbed Max behind his ears.

"Regular maintenance is what leads to a long gun life," she mumbled, her attention focused on the firing spring she was now examining.

"Don't you think it's ironic to use the word 'life' in conjunction with the word 'gun'?" I asked. Max rolled onto his back, in the hope that I would rub his belly. I obliged.

She looked up at me with her hard brown eyes. Her pixie cut hair would match the color of her eyes, if she didn't regularly bleach the color away. Using the word "pixie" to describe my mom was far from accurate, though. She was tough as nails, and I was certainly glad to have her on my team when she stormed the school for retribution, as mothers often did when they felt their child was wronged by a teacher or the administration. But some days, I was her enemy, and I loathed remembering them. I had inherited some of her hardness, along with her gently sloping jaw, heart shaped face, and high cheek bones.

I could tell from the stubborn look in my mom's eyes that she was about to end the argument, before it could begin. "Guns protect life," she said with complete finality.

I didn't bother to respond. We had been through this before. She didn't just think her gun was protecting innocents in the hospital from crazy intruders. She thought that some sort of apocalypse was a real threat, and we needed to be prepared to fight for our lives. What if the government suddenly turned against us? What if some sort of disease spread through the city, turning our neighbors into zombies? These sorts of questions are what caused my parents to fall in love with each other. They thought they were the most reasonable people in the world, taking smart precautions, while everyone else blithely chose to believe that nothing in their lives could ever go wrong. I lived through most of my childhood with the belief that the apocalypse was just a matter of when and how. The other kids thought I was weird, but I didn't let that make me turn my back on reality, as the rest of society did, according to my parents. I dutifully carried my survival kit with me, wherever I went, with my school supplies shoved into the side pockets. I had a second, more complete survival kit at home, which was equipped with weapons.