The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Where the Sad Men Live
by Melissa R. Mendelson

My birthday was last night.  I turned forty-five.  My husband and two kids celebrated me with dinner and a movie.  It was a nice night, quiet, and I should have enjoyed it.  But I didn’t, and as I lowered down toward my birthday cake with so many bright, sparkling candles, I made a wish.  I wished for something to happen to me, something exciting.

The next morning, I awoke to a coldness.  It wasn’t the house.  The radiators were creaking out the heat, but the soft sheets felt stiff, the covers scratchy.  Strange, the material almost felt unfamiliar, and my husband lied close to me.  But when I touched him, he flipped over and snapped, “Don’t touch me.”

“Okay.  It was my birthday last night,” I said.

“Yeah.  We celebrated it.  Now, I’m sleeping.”

“Alright, someone is getting off the wrong side of the bed today.”  I slipped off the bed, and my feet searched for my warm, soft slippers.  They weren’t there.  Maybe, I kicked them under the bed, but I didn’t bother to look.  Instead, I took a shower, and the water was lukewarm.  “Some day after my birthday,” I muttered to myself.

Usually when I went downstairs, the kids would have the television set on and watch something, sometimes something outrageous.  They also would have huge bowels full of sugar and milk, and they would chatter away about things that I had no clue about.  This morning was different.  No television set.  No cereal bowels full of sugar and milk.  No talking.  Instead, they sat pale and stiff at the kitchen table, eating their toast and drinking orange juice.  What was going on today?

“Morning, kids.”  I noticed sharp stares when I said that.  “Too much cake last night?”

“Cake?”  My son asked.  “Who had cake?”

“Not us,” my daughter muttered.  “She must have dreamt it.”

“We had cake last night.”  I rustled my son’s hair, and he gave me a panicked look.  “What?  What’s wrong?”

“You didn’t ask his permission,” my daughter said.  “You invaded his space.”

“What?  Okay.  Are you two and your father playing some kind of joke on me because I was disappointed with my birthday last night?”

“Mother,” my son said.  “We had the appropriate meal for your birthday, and we watched the documented news.  You were fine last night.”  His gaze narrowed.  “You are not fine now.”

I pushed away a chill growing at the base of my spine.  “I’m fine.  Maybe, I’m just confused.”

“You are confused,” my daughter said.  “And what are you wearing?  Jeans?  We don’t wear jeans.  We wear pants.”

“Seriously, what is going on?”  I reached over to touch my daughter’s hand, but she slapped my hand away.

“Mother, what is wrong with you?”

“I’m just trying to show you some affection.”  I smiled at my daughter, but she did not smile back.  “You can smile.  It’s not illegal to smile.”

“Yes, it is,” my son said.  “Only the authorities can be happy.  We just accommodate.”

“Accommodate?”

“Dad, something’s wrong with Mother,” my daughter screamed loudly, and a thud was heard from upstairs.

“This isn’t funny.”  I listened to my husband hurry down the stairs.  I barely recognized him.  He was always a little rough on the edges, but I got that soft side to come out more and more over the years.  That soft side was not there, and the gaze in his eyes was cold, menacing.  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Do not bother the children.  If you want to have another one, I’ll gladly take you upstairs, but otherwise, leave them alone.  They need to be educated.”

“Educated?”  I shook my head.  “I don’t understand.  None of you were like this last night.  You ae all different people.”

A photograph on the wall caught my attention.  It was once a colorful, happy image of the four of us.  This one was cold, and we were dressed like we were at a funeral not a celebration.

“I have to make a call.”  My husband left the room.

I watched him leave and looked at the children.  “What is this?  1984?”

“Dad, Mother said a banned word.”

I wish to wake up.  I wish to wake up.  I wish to wake up, but I was still standing in the kitchen, surrounded by children that were not mine.

“Dad,” my son yelled, but he wasn’t my son.

“They’re on the way.  She’ll be educated soon.”

“What is educated?”  I asked.

“It is what the authorities deem for you,” my daughter responded, but she was not my daughter.

“What about free will?”  I asked.

“Dad, why is Mother saying so many banned words?”

Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the front door.  One knock, and they came in, men with pale faces, burrowed brows, and twisted cheeks.  They did not say a word but moved like death, only they were missing a scythe, and as they locked onto my arms, pushing me outside, all the warmth screamed from my body.  I was numb, surrounded, and my husband and children stood a distance away.  But they were not my family.

“I want to go home.  I want to go home.  I want to go…”

One man placed something over my mouth, and a bitter taste raced across my tongue.  My jaw slammed shut, and my eyes fluttered.  I slipped, but they had me, these sad men that refused to let me go.

.

Fiction © Copyright Melissa R. Mendelson
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

About Author Melissa R. Mendelson:

Melissa R. Mendelson is a horror, science-fiction and dystopian author and poet.  She has two publications with Wild Ink Publishing.  One is a prose poetry collection, This Will Remain With Us, and the other is a short story collection, Stories Written On Covid Walls.  She also self-published a sci-fi novella, Waken and a small short story collection, Name’s Keeper.

If you’d like to learn more about Melissa, you can visit her accounts here: www.MelissaMendelson.com