Flicker by Anya Monroe

so long. For the life I missed out on. I take a large rock with tiny barnacles clinging to the bottom and chuck it into the lapping water.
    "I'm sorry, Lucy.”
    I look over at her, not expecting her words. Apologies are not a part of our history. The shining face I thought I’d seen is actually one streaked with tears. She lost something over these sixteen years too. “Here, throw another one,” she says, tossing a smaller rock to me.
    We wear out our arms flinging our feelings as far from us as possible, and I realize sometimes actions are better than words. Doing something with all of my might, without the constraint of caution and fear, feels good. Eventually we sit down on a log and take long drinks of water from our bottles.
    “We should keep walking, I can see those rain clouds over there,” she points to the sky. “I’d like to get as far as possible before we get rained on.”
    I’ve never been in the rain, but that isn’t what scares me. “What are we going to do if we run into someone?”
    “Are you scared of meeting somebody out here?”
    “They could try to kill us.”
    “If that happens, it happens. There will be nothing we can do to stop it.”
    “Sounds like you’re giving up.”
    “I’m not giving up, I’m just done with living in fear. There’s a difference.”
    We walk in silence, but Mom becomes animated when we see a two-story house. The windows are shattered and weeds grow in the eaves, but it is proof of civilization.
    “Let’s look.”
    “Why?” Stepping foot on the fenced property, empty or not, feels dangerous. I know how angry Diane would become if I stepped foot into her bedroom, even if it was because I was helping her clean. She would point her finger at me and tell me to remember where I belong. I don’t want to go where I’m not allowed.
    “Lucy … I need clues. I need to understand what happened sixteen years ago. I need more than what a half a dozen cowboys have told us.” She’s back to being the strong-willed woman I’ve always known. She’s back to being like the members of the compound, dismissing my feelings and my fears, making sure I know I’m not the one in charge of anything.
    I follow her, not wanting to stand on the road by myself. The porch creaks at our weight. “Hello?” Mom calls. “Anyone here?” No one is.
    Mom twists the knob of the door open and then using her foot, she kicks it in … opening it wide. A skeleton lies on the entryway floor and I let out a sharp scream. Mom pushes past me and walks inside.
    I stand paralyzed by the sight of the decomposed body. My eyes have taken in so much the last two days. Nausea hits and I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to push down the bile threatening to escape. Mom walks back to the front of the house, not registering how being here overwhelms me, I’ve never set foot in a house besides my own.
    “They must have been shot. There’s another body in the kitchen, a bullet straight through the skull.”
    “Mom, we need to go, we shouldn’t be here.” I turn to leave, whether Mom follows or not. I need to get out of here before I get sick.
    “Okay, just give me a second. It’s important to understand what happened. We have no idea what we’re up against.”
    “Looking at corpses isn’t going to help.”  I walk out to the front yard and sit in the high grass, fuming at Mom. A half hour later she join me.
    “The rooms are empty, besides some water-logged mattresses. Looks like a fire consumed most everything at some point.”
    I don’t answer, because there’s nothing to say. I nod and follow her off the property. We pick up our pace on the road, though it feels like our motivations are different for doing so. Mom wants answers, I want safety.
    Mom has always wanted to protect me. She wanted to go inside that house to figure out the ending to the story she missed out on, to put together the pieces so she can take care of me. I get that, but there’s this great divide between us. I