Project Recollection by A A Woods

Author:A A Woods [Woods, A A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781951803063
Publisher: Amonoux LLC
Published: 2020-07-16T16:00:00+00:00

Tora

Thursday, September 20th, 2195

8:36 P.M. EST

I get home to the smell of something burning. My nose twitches as I step inside our apartment, swinging my borrowed PAP over the bread-crumb trail of discarded clothing, scattered boxes, rumpled blankets.

On the stove, smoke curls out beneath a pan lid frosted with condensation.

“Shit!”

I sprint into the kitchen and tear open the pot. A sharp, acrid stink rises in thick columns, saturating the already stale air of our apartment. I turn off the burner and wave my free hand over the pot to clear the smoke, leaning away from the heat even as I bring the PAP closer.

A curdled blackened mass coats the bottom, still smoldering.

“Mom?” I call as I dump the pot in the crowded sink and run water over it, knowing it won’t do any good. It’s beyond ruined. “Mom?”

I step around the kitchen wall, sweep my father’s PAP over the apartment.

She’s there, staring out the window, silhouetted by the throbbing city lights. She looks like a ghost in her threadbare sweatpants and ripped t-shirt, almost translucent against the loud world outside. When she turns toward me, her expression is lost. Frightened and innocent and vulnerable, like something tender left out in the cold. I wonder if all that time spent hiding in her own memories has made this world too brutal to be tolerated.

“Mei?”

I disconnect from my PAP. I can’t bear to see the shifting bones beneath papery skin, the stumbling steps that are even more hesitant than mine.

“You ruined a pot,” I say, shoving my father’s PAP into my jacket. Zhu’s jacket. “I’ll have to get a new one next time I go out.”

“I was trying to make you dinner,” she says in that ethereal voice. “I thought I would make my carbonara.”

“Without any cream or cheese or bacon?”

“Oh. Right.”

I roll my eyes and reach down to pick up an admonishing Pixel, his irritated meow loud and demanding from around my knees.

“Where have you been?”

“Out,” I answer as Pixel settles into my arms. I refuse to pet him, but he purrs anyway.

“Thank you for cleaning up,” she says. And then adds, “Peaches.”

“Don’t call me that.” My voice comes out harder than I intend, but I don’t soften it.

“I was just remembering—” I flinch, but she goes on, barely noticing “— how Zhu used to call you that. He used to say it when you were walking, like a pet name.”

“It wasn’t a pet name.”

“Peaches,” Mom says, tasting the word. “It was so cute.”

I clutch Pixel tighter, wishing I could just turn and leave. This constant reminder of how little Mom noticed me even when Zhu was around feels like an endless memory of being stabbed. My mind drifts back to when we invented the word, that shared moment with Zhu when he crouched down, looked into my dead eyes, saw me for what I am. Met me on my own level and helped me move forward.

He was the only one who ever tried.

I hate the way his memory curls like burnt paper, tainted by the aftermath he left.

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