Maurice nestled in bed beside his mother. The urge to do so hadn’t subsided in fifty-seven years, but he’d come for one thing, and it wasn’t to say goodbye.
He fingered her pockmarked skin – yellow but for the pink hollows of her eyes. Her dilated pupils swallowed sunlight, seeing nothing.
Rasping, she’d begged for water, her swollen tongue lolling without comfort. The plastic cup remained untouched.
Maurice placed an ear to her chest. ‘Soon, you’ll be dead,’ he whispered. ‘Then I’ll have everything.’
Later, inside the vault, Maurice and the bank manager inserted keys into dual locks. A narrow door opened, releasing a faint odour of decay.
‘I’ll give you some time.’
The vault door shuddered and latched.
Maurice placed the stainless-steel box on the counting shelf. His pointed tongue played at an ulcer. Cash? Not jewellery. Sentimentality was lost on her.
He opened the lid. Rot lifted from lumpy straw, eggshell, and bloody, viscous fluid. There was a sound. A peeping.
Startled, Maurice shoved the box to the floor with a crash.
A creature flopped out. Pink skin stretched on a skeletal frame. Shadowy, blue-black orbs strained towards the fluorescent light.
The creature stretched its open beak skyward, exposing its black hole throat. Nearby, neck at right angles, its mother lay motionless in the bloody straw.
Maurice scrambled, bile rising.
On clawed stumps, the creature waddled forward. The peeping grew desperate. Demanding.
Maurice screamed. His mother’s voice filled his ears.
‘I gave you everything. Soon, there’ll be nothing left.’
About the author
Amanda co-hosts the popular ‘Not Quite Write’ podcast, offering a lighthearted take on media, culture and the art of writing for writers. You can learn more at Not Quite Write.