Nothing quite draws your attention back to the present like your mother gripping you by the hair.

“Are you paying attention? Have you been listening?” she demands, her eyes bulging.

“…Yes,” I lie, feeling her nails dig into the top of my head, pulling me from whatever daydream I’d been having. She scowls down at me with bloodshot eyes.

“Don’t be stupid, boy. You’re acting like a stupid boy, and I won’t have that,” she spits. The words used to sting. Not so much anymore. Now I only worry about her knuckles. I expect them to find my face, but her grip on me relaxes.

“I’m going in now. What do you do if you see someone?” she demands.

“…I yell for you.”

“Good boy. Now, here. Use it only if you need to. Only if you can’t yell for me first, understood?” she affirms, handing me the weapon. I’ve gotten used to the weight of the knife in my palm by now. It used to feel so foreign and unnatural, but now it’s almost comforting. I bob my head and she turns away, scanning the vacant street before picking the lock to her “friend’s” house. See, I’m not as stupid as she thinks, I know what we’re really doing here.

I listen to the muffled cacophony of glass breaking and things being overturned as she rummages through each room. She used to take me inside with her when I was smaller. She used to make sure that I was constantly by her side. But now that I’m older, my job is to be the lookout. So I stand outside in the blistering sun, being as vigilant as I can… until I realize that I’ve been picking daisies off the overgrown lawn for the last few minutes.

I stand up quickly, looking from side to side, and my eyes land on her.

She’s small, like me. Just a child. I watch her bare feet shuffle over the searing pavement and I feel the urge to shout a greeting, but I know mother would be furious. So instead I wave. She doesn’t respond, she just keeps coming closer. Her clothes are just as dirty as mine, and that makes me feel a bit better. When she’s close enough, I try whispering to her.

“Hi, do you live over there?” I ask, pointing to the house across the street. She stares at me in silence, still moving forward. I try to say more to her, but it’s like she can’t hear me. Only once she’s face to face with me do I realize that something is wrong with her eyes. They’re milky white. Empty. Soulless. Her face contorts as she bares her bloodstained teeth at me. Terrified, I drop the knife to the dirt as she lunges. Her fingers nearly reach my flesh. Then her head explodes, covering me in debris.

Mother appears in front of me, shouting over my ringing ears.

“Didn’t I tell you to yell for me?”