Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoiler: No Rest for the Wicked
Not yet beta'd. I wrote this in a hurry cos it just wanted to be written. Feedback and constructive criticism is welcome. So is a Beta :-).
Summary: This is how it looks from the other side.
OOOOO
It seems like hours, days even. The basement is dark and dingy and she thinks of cleaning it right now. The thought is followed by a hysterical bubble. She presses a hand on her lips, drowning the sound.
But her daughter, asleep in her arms, doesn't move. And this time she's sure it's her daughter. The one she was ready to sacrifice mere hours (or is it days already) ago. Instinctively she presses the small body closer to her chest, feeding from its warmth. Willing her to stay asleep forever, peaceful and in total ignorance of what this thing did to her innocence.
Her husband starts twitching next to her, moaning and she wants him to keep quiet as not to wake up her daughter.
"Sshhh...", she hisses and he obeys immediately. A habit born from an eternity of fear and terror. Blinking owlishly he stares at her, then at his little girl, who's never looked more peaceful in her life.
"It's over", she finally says and can feel the warm tears run over her cold face. Her hands begin to shake, but she doesn't dare moving. Afraid of waking up from this wonderful dream. Even though it's cold and humiliating (cowering in her own basement for God's sake with dead, rotting corpses above) she'd never felt happier in her life.
He gets up, sways a little but keeps standing.
"What happened?" he asks and his eyes are distrustful. Only for a moment. Then he, too, understands.
In silence they wait another few minutes before they move. Their child tugged safely between, only stirring slightly when her husband takes her in his arms.
When they reach the first floor, they can hear it's quiet in the house. Deathly calm, like the whole world remains silent in companionable thoughtfulness.
The only thing that can be heard is the buzzing of the flies. The stench of rotting flesh is filling the rooms that are supposed to smell like casserole or chocolate cookies or flowers in the living room vase.
She gags and would gladly go back into the cellar where there's nothing more smelly than the bleach on the washing machine.
But she keeps walking, looks out for something. For the two young men that had saved her and her little girl.
She finds them, huddled together in the dining room. A young woman, deathly pale and with open eyes lies next to them but the puddle of blood has its center with the two men. One of them is awake the other one clearly dead.
'What matters another dead body.'
She's shocked about her reaction and wants to console the man with the long hair. His back is shaking, like he's crying. He probably is. After all he's holding a dead body in his arms. A friend? A brother?
Fingers tighten around her wrist and she turns around, looks into the pleading eyes of her loved ones. She knows what they want. They want to leave and never come back. And it's exactly what she wants, too. She reaches out a hand, puts it on the young man's shoulder and he turns around. His face is wet with tears but he's not crying anymore.
And somehow she just knows (like a mother knows everything about her children), that he'll never be crying again. One way or another. All the energy she'd glimpsed in his eyes before had leaked out of him like the other man's blood.
They don't change words and after she leaves the loathed home, she never sees him again.