The Journey Down
There are other mothers here, keeping vigil above sons and daughters. They hover thin and hopeless, our only company on the slow journey down. Even though I'm puking, I am fascinated by this perverse technical achievement. They are a perfectly effective punishment. I am consumed by guilt.
Our dark capsule is filled with pleas for forgiveness, childish denials and soft, wet sobs. Petty crimes are evident: soiled beds, dirty magazines under the mattress, sheets yellow with urine or stiff with semen or blotched with blood, dim flashlights, forbidden cigarettes, and secret diaries.
Someone stumbles up, fist whistling through his mother's shocked visage, tripping over her empty purse.
This could be any forgotten sci-fi film -- I am one of the hundred chosen to survive, crowding around the window of our spaceship for one last look at our doomed world -- only the film is running wrong and we are falling back to a planet blossoming in agony. The motherworld laboring in reverse.
"I'm so sorry, Momma."