Coyote

I'm thirsty. It's hard to swallow, and my throat hurts. The kind of sting you feel after vomiting from a flu, and it aches not just in your throat, but in your entire system. Every time I manage to salivate, it takes what feels like hours to swallow a bundle of fire. And my head. It throbs and pulsates in its own deprived way of telling me that I am so close to the end of the world. I think this is what the sailors must have felt when they were stranded at sea with no sign of land. I remember the stories; they only had salt water, and each other. Their choice was to resort to cannibalism to survive, or drink the ocean which would inevitably make them delirious and fatefully ill. Another demise I'd rather not imagine. Damn this desert to hell. But what's the point in damning it? It feels like hell already.

I acted as stubborn as a mule when I insisted on going on to visit my mother despite the warnings. She is sick, with a hereditary disease that will cause blindness. I will suffer the same illness someday, but for the time being, my vision is mostly clear and she needs me. The trains were stopped due to some sort of malfunction on the railroads, and it should take days, weeks even, to clear. My mother is an artist, and I won't let her suffer that long. Because I am an artist too, and I feel like I know that the worst thing to take from an artist would be their vision. I can't imagine what it would be like to look at a canvas, and not see it. I have spinach and blueberries for her. It's what the doctor suggested to at least slow the process of blindness, it's better than nothing. I can get to her. I can.

I've been walking for miles, I'm sure. My pace has slowed, but I know by my shadow that it has been hours. It's late evening, summertime. The sun sets late here this time of year so I know to set up camp before the light falls. Camp is an overstatement of what I am doing. I am merely just lying down to sleep.

Thirsty. So thirsty.

I can see the shimmering lights in the distance. The city I just traveled from. I'm disappointed that I can't see my destination, but I have two canteens of water and my mother isn't too far away. I have never traveled to her on foot before, but it never seemed too long by train. I'll take four sips now of my water. That was the plan, but I take gulps that empty an entire canteen. One left. Sleep now.

I'm so tired, but I can't seem to fully rest. I suppose I am used to the quietness of the schedule of the city. Everyone falls to a deep coma when the lights are out, the only stir is a patrolman shuffling by in a duty that must be futile since violence and disturbance is unheard of in my home. Here in the desert, I can hear snakes and coyotes. I heard about them in the stories that the schools told us, that they'll eat you alive if you wander off alone. I wandered off alone.

I'm cold. I realize how under-educated I was about the desert before the sun sets. They always teach you in the schools about how you'll die of a heat stroke or dehydration, but they always figured everyone would only risk the dangers of the waking hours, the daytime. They clearly forgot to warn us that the night is cold and merciless. My shivering doesn't help, and my muscles ache more with the shaking of my bones. I've managed to doodle a sloppy design of the sun setting in the thin layer of dust that has settled on the dry rocks that I am lying on. It looks similar to the designs I have seen on the travelers from Polynesia, and I spend my restless hours imagining what it would be like to place those designs in the flesh of others. It's really a spectacular sight where I am from, but it seems normal to them to be marked so strangely. By the time the sun rises, I am sore all over from trembling in the freezing night.

I pack up my gear which is no more than two canteens and a light jacket, along with the food, and head to the direction of my mother. I've decided to nibble on a bit of spinach, but only a bite's worth. Just for the strength I'll need to get to her. I can recover when I am there, but for the time being, I need to actually get there. Still only one full canteen left. I have to save it.

Mother must be hurting for water, so I'll push my thirst a bit longer. She lives far from town and only has a warm well to drink from, which I am sure isn't a very healthy well as she gets sick often. It will be nice to gift her with something pure from the faucets of the city. I have to keep walking.

I can't keep track of the hours, but I know it's been a while. My back burns from a scorching pain that can only be a severe sunburn, and my throat is getting that searing, dry pain again. My brain feels like it is banging against my skull. I know I am close to my destination, even if I can't see it. I can't see the city anymore either, it must be further than I thought.

I can't see anything, really. Just desert. Did I take a wrong turn? Was I that unprepared for the journey? I think I was traveling in a straight line...

And then I see her. Mom. I run to her but she runs from me for a short distance and then stops and looks at me as if she is planning something dreadful. She seems shorter, and is crouched down on her hands and legs, like a toddler learning to walk, but not out of the crawling phase yet. My vision isn't doing so well; it must be the heat and the thirst and lack of sleep. "Mother!" I call to her with a scratched voice. Is she hurt? Why is she acting so strange? Another copy of her rushes to her side, and then another and another. And then I see it. Her teeth are sharp and brutal. This is not my mother. I begin to realize her furry shoulders and her anger towards me. She leaps forward, and her friends follow. But it can't be anger; it must be something she needs. Like how I need water and rest.

It hits me in my throat and around my neck. Then my left arm, and then my right calf. I try to fight, but I just want to protect my mother. But this isn't my mother. This isn't the woman that kissed my scrapes and made the pain go away as a child. This is a canine creature that is beginning to tear me apart. A coyote. There is a warmth of the liquid rushing down my arm and my leg and now my face as I come to the conclusion of what is happening to me. It's faster than I can understand. The red is darker, and the smell of blood much more putrid. I'm trying to scream, but I can only gurgle after that first attack on my neck. My body is becoming torn, and all I want is to protect this image of Mother. But she is not my mother. Mother would never hurt me.

I can hear the howls that the canines produce in the desert, and I can't help but let my eyes close and try to block out this pain. The pain seems to be drifting, and I can feel myself falling into a rest that seems to be more splendid than any nap I have ever had. I lose all feeling and suddenly a drastic sleep overwhelms me.