W.W.Z.D.

Nov. 30 -- The Atlantic

It’s been two weeks; two fucking weeks, that we’ve been in this shitty little boat. I could shoot myself in the face for suggesting this god damned trip. We were supposed to go from Miami to Jamaica, to have fun, to bond. The storm came out of nowhere, and now we’re on this boat, our own little slice of hell.

My son and wife are dying. All he does is lay there; he doesn’t talk, he barely moves. And she… Well, I told her not to drink the ocean water. She’s been drinking it for two days now. I tried to stop her and she attacked me. The scratches she left across my face don’t bleed much, I’m dehydrated, but they pulse with pain every time my heart beats.

I got her back though. The side of her face is swollen from where my hand hit her. What did she expect though when she started talking about eating our son?

“He’s going to die, Bob, we know that. And we’ll die too if we don’t do something soon!” she had said. My mouth just hung open. “I love him more than anything in the world, but I love you too and there is no reason we all should die! If we just wait for him to die we might not be strong enough to do what we need to do!”

Without saying anything I had punched her. I feel terrible, but I had to stop that line of thought. That was yesterday. I hope it was just madness brought on by the salt water. I haven’t slept since.

My stomach hurts, my skin hurts, and any hopes of survival are dimmed by the knowledge that our marriage, and possibly our son, won’t survive this. My son moans and my wife is silent. Her eyes are wide open and her head is thrown back. She could be dead but I can’t bring myself to check. I look up into the night sky. I hope I die with my eyes open – at least then my body will have a decent view of the universe.

The rocking of the boat and my son’s moaning pull me down. I fight off sleep, I have to, but I am weak. It’s been a week since I’ve had any food. For a moment the salty smell of the air reminds me of pretzels. I fall asleep licking my lips, but all I taste is dried skin.

I awake to the sound of screaming; images slowly forming in my eyes against the blinding light of the morning. My wife is on top of my son in a carnal position kissing his neck and he is screaming. My mind stalls, my mouth drops and my wife pulls up her head and her chin is covered in blood. She is eating him alive.

For a second I want to join her; the hunger inside my swells and releases a sound of glee. I am disgusted with myself. I need to act.

“Bonnie, you fucking bitch, he’s still alive!” I scream shocked at the volume of my voice. “Get the fuck off my son!”

She stands up and looks at me. There is something wrong with her eyes. She lunges at me and the boat rocks with our confrontation. She is trying to bite me and my son’s blood is dripping of her face and on to my chest.

She is in the water. Somehow, I don’t know, I had managed to roll her off the boat without flipping the damn thing. I look over the edge, expecting to see her treading. Instead she sinks away, an ever increasing blue vastness separating us. She’s not kicking, or pulling the water with her hands, she’s just clawing at my face in the growing distance, her face curled in a hellish snarl.

Soon I can’t see her at all. Have I killed her? Have I killed my wife? I begin to whimper; it’s the only sound I can hear until my son’s screaming calls me back to him.

I rush to his side, nearly tipping the boat as I scoop him up in my arms. I press my hand to the gaping bleeding wound on his neck. I see deep scratch marks across his chest.

“It’ll be okay, Ray, Daddy’s here,” I say, not sure why I referred to myself as “Daddy” to my seventeen-year-old son. I begin to rock him. The wound on his neck is sticky and I can feel grains of salt in it. I think of making a tourniquet but can’t leave his side.

That fucking bitch!

Hours pass by and my son has lost the energy to cry. He makes gurgling sounds and I’m still rocking him, a dad rocking a crying child to silence. I smile. The gurgling becomes more guttural and my smile fades.

There is silence.

Time passes, I don’t know how much, while I stare at my son’s limp body. He is lying in a pool of his own blood and some water. For some reason it reminds me of when he was born; red fluids and a limp body. This makes me think of the woman that had brought him into the world. I feel empty. For a second moment, I consider eating his flesh.

I lay him down and move away. I don’t like these thoughts. I stare at my hand, it’s covered in my son’s blood. I gingerly lick the blood off my palm. Ashamed, I clean my palm and lick between my fingers. I begin to shudder. I know what I have to do.

I’m sorry. I press my mouth to the wound on his neck and begin to suck. I can’t bring myself to bite at the wound. His blood will do for now. It tastes like shame, and something else, something good.

He opens his eyes and grabs me. I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

He is snarling and scratching at my back. I’m sorry. I don’t stop. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer. I can’t stop. I bite into the wound. I’m sorry.

He holds me close with all his strength. I feel surging pain in my ear. He’s eating me. I can’t stop. I don’t stop. His teeth close around my neck and open a slowly bleeding hole.

We don’t stop. We can’t.