My body reacted instinctually, leaning my head back while throwing my body backwards. I caught a glimpse of my startled face reflecting off of the wide cleaver blade. My feet got caught underneath on the step that led into the kitchen and began falling backwards. My arms did a whirlwind motion as they tried to catch me, to no avail. With a thud, my back collided with the ground, knocking the wind out of me.
For a few seconds, my world was consumed by strenuous efforts to draw breath into my lungs. I was briefly aware of footsteps to my right, back to where the corner of the building was, but that observation was banished out of my mind as the door to the kitchen burst open to reveal the holder of the knife.
My mother stood there, her expression unreadable, her eyes glazed over. The cleaver was held loosely in her grasp. She stared down at me, no shred of emotion or recognition.
Her grip tightened on the cleaver as she raised it above her shoulder. Fear began shooting through my body, and what can I only assume was my survival instinct was urging me to move. I still lay there, trying to gather air into my lungs, so my hands and legs weakly trying to flip my body over. I was successful, my boots pressing into the ground I began to rise. My legs were already tense, preparing themselves to sprint forward.
I was not fast enough.
I felt the muscles in my back tear as the cleaver grazed them. My skin split under its razor sharp edge and sent me tumbling forward. Searing pain spread out from the cut, its power freezing me in place as my body spasmed. It wasn't a very deep cut, but it was enough to knock me off of my feet.
Any other thoughts vanished from my mind. All I could think of now was my mother, standing behind me, my blood on her weapon. With another grunt of exertion, I pushed myself forward, the pain from my wound keeping me from being able to stand. It was a stroke of luck, as I heard the cleaver slice through the air where I had been a second before. With another grunt, I tried to raise myself to my feet, but I felt a foot land onto my lower back and push me down to the ground, pinning me there.
I craned my neck to get a look at my mother, and saw her standing on top of me, the same deadpan expression occupying her face. I tried to wrestle out from underneath her foot, but she was pinning me with a strength that I knew was impossible from her small frame. With the same motion she made before, the cleaver was raised over her shoulder. Thoughts of trying to hit her leg off of me flashed through my mind, but as I looked at her face, I knew that that action would be beyond me.
And then her head was separated from her shoulders.
With a sickening chunk, the edge of a blade passed through one side of her neck, making its way to the other side before exiting, throwing her head in a random direction. In an instant, her body fell to the ground beside me, her blood staining the blades of grass crimson. I stared at her headless body for what felt like an eternity. There was no way that was really her, right? This had to be someone else, someone wearing her face. I even had a brief, irrational thought, that she would open the door to the kitchen behind, yell my name like she liked to.
I was trapped in this world for hours until I felt a strong hand grasp the back of my shirt and yank me up. Even the pain in my back was numb.
I was lifted to my feet before I even realized what was going on. "Are you ok there, young man?" A gruff voice called out next to me. I slowly turned my head to look at the man who had killed my mother.
He was old, grizzled, his beard thick and his hair unkempt. In his hands was a woodcutter's axe, the blade caked in blood. His arms were thick, and even through my daze I could see the size and definition.
"Here, take this." His voice was deep and gravelly, as if he had spent the last ten years yelling everyday. I saw him bend over and scoop my mothers cleaver off of the ground, before thrusting it into my hands. "Keep this handy, always. I don't know what is happening, but you need to run. You seem to be one of the few sane ones left." I looked him in the eyes, and he faltered. He stared at me in concern.
"Son, I understand what must be going through your mind, but you need to leave, NOW! RUN!" With a jolt, the shout pushed me into the action, along with his strong hand on my back forcing me to move. My legs carried me forward. I glanced down at the ground towards the direction I saw my mothers head land, and saw a dark mass of hair and unidentifiable features.
As I turned my gaze back in front of me, I resolved to banish all of those thoughts from my head. I couldn't worry about what had just happened, I needed to worry about what was going to happen, I needed to worry about the future. Focus on living first, and when I have time, I will grieve. For now, I just needed to move. My stride broke into a run, my arms pumping up and down furiously as I sprinted away from the sounds of death behind me. A treeline occupied my vision in front of me.
I would grieve. But later. First, I needed to live.