Jeremy spent practically all day staring out the window.
How long had it been like this, he wondered. How long had it been since he had seen another living soul besides his mom? The landscape through the murky, thick dust of the window was dry, barren. The air in the house smelled arid and musty and stale.
He could think of only two words.
Dead and bare.
How much longer did they have until the food ran out... They had been so fortunate. The little convenience store and feed supply his Dad had run all his life before his death four years earlier which was connected to their small rural farm had been well stocked before the blast. They had also been fortunate enough to have been very far away from the explosion. After a few days of nauseating sickness, the air had somewhat cleared, and the birds had come back. And they'd been okay.
But there had been no transmission of any news ever. And now there was no electricity and no water and no WiFi.
The world beyond them could be dead and lost for all he knew.
He felt so irritable all the time now. He walked into the kitchen, hungry and sick and tired of living on creamed corn and green beans. He felt like he would have given his limbs right there for a bacon cheeseburger and fries.
"Mom," he called out, "Where is the can opener?"
She entered the kitchen in a seeming flurry.
"Sorry baby, I was trying to get the clothes off the line. In the bottom drawer."
He opened the drawer and fished out the rusted rudimentary tool. Twisting it over the top of the can, he hummed softly to himself. He wanted to make sure he would remember his favorite songs. He wanted to make sure he never ever forgot things.
Just in case...
His mom came to stand next to him.
"Jeremy, honey," she spoke softly. "I've got the rain water heated and I poured it in the tub for you upstairs. Go take your bath. Get cleaned up. I have your sweat pants and shirts cleaned. You'll feel so much better, baby."
She was trying. He knew it. She always had a positive attitude. He hadn't seen her get upset or emotional in years. But he was tired and angry and sick of living the way they'd had to for what seemed like so long now.
It irritated him suddenly, her kindness. Her tendency to still dote on him like she always had, despite the fact they had found themselves in the middle of what could possibly be the Apocalypse.
And the end of his life and hopes and dreams.
"Do you ever get mad?" he found himself practically spitting at her. "I never see you lose your temper. You never just punch a wall. What's wrong with you? Do you ever stop to think the world might be fucking ending as we know it?"
Her face fell completely. All his friends used to say she looked young, at least for her age. She was still pretty. He'd get mad when they'd say things. "I'd fuck your mom," some of them would say. "She's a MILF." He'd always tell them to shut the fuck up. He didn't want to hear that shit about his mother, even if it were true.
He watched her pretty blue eyes grow large and mist over in a sheen of tears.
He felt instantaneous regret. "God, I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry... I've just been--"
But she cut him off, though her voice was so weak and strained from emotion that he could barely hear her.
"Please Jeremy, it's okay. Please baby. Just go and take your bath. I'm going to take mine, too."
He watched her walk away. Her long blonde hair was slightly wavy and shiny and thick. She was taking good care of herself despite everything.
After she'd left he had the horrible urge to put his fist through the wall. He was full of rage and a feeling of utter helplessness. But he didn't let himself. He didn't want to destroy their home she still worked hard to make look nice and neat and cozy and homey.
About thirty minutes later he was clean and fresh and in comfortable clothes, and feeling a little better, but he was still on edge. He went to her bedroom and knocked.
"Come in," she called out softly.
He saw her in a clean white cotton nightgown. It was something she'd bought long ago at Victoria's Secret in the mall. It wasn't sexy but pretty. A thin nightgown in the Victorian style, with a lace collar and short sleeves. The collar wasn't really low cut, it ended just above what must be her cleavage.
She looked up at him. He could still read the hurt on her face.
"I'm trying to mend your socks," she spoke softly. He saw the needle and thread flashing softly, her little wicker sewing basket open beside her.
