Mama

Bedlam crouched beneath the bed, pressed into the darkest corner beside the nightstand. Her belly growled, low and insistent.​ Her hollow eyes flickered in the shadows. She licked her cracked lips and swallowed painfully. The air was filled with the scent of a human — sleeping, defenseless, soft as a marshmallow.

Bedlam’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. Her bony, thin hands, their withered skin like parchment, rested on her enormous, round belly. A tiny foot responded with a gentle kick against her palm. She had to eat — had to — to survive, to keep her baby alive. He had to live. And she had to live for him.

Thunder rumbled. Bedlam flinched. Tonight, she had a chance. Outside, the wind howled and raged, trees groaned, and branches cracked. Somewhere, a transformer exploded, and the streetlight flickered. She froze, afraid to breathe. But after a few unsteady blinks, the light shone brightly again. Bedlam nearly cried in despair. Every year, the light spread further. Every year, it got worse.

There was a time when darkness fell in houses as soon as the last candle was blown out. Thick, sweet, dangerous darkness. Beds were cramped, packed with sleeping bodies, limbs dangling over the edges. Then came oil lamps, then streetlights, which began peering shamelessly into homes. People moved from scattered farms to cities, where cars prowled the streets at all hours, their headlights banishing the dark. And then — electricity. Light, deadly light, was everywhere now — relentless, inescapable.

The person in the bed mumbled something in their sleep, turning over, sending dust drifting down onto Bedlam’s face. A thick, pale leg slipped from under the blanket, dangling off the bed.

Bedlam lost control. She lunged — but stopped instantly. The room flickered with the glow of a computer screen, a motion-activated nightlight, and the bulbs of a baby monitor. All that light could kill her. She retreated, nostrils flaring, drinking in the scent.

Another rumble, closer this time. Rain poured down, hammering the roof, drumming against the windows in a frantic rhythm. The wind grew even stronger. A sharp crack, then a heavy thud shook the ground — a tree or a massive branch had fallen.

The house’s microwave, washing machine, coffee maker, and refrigerator beeped, each in its own tone. Their lights flickered in a final struggle and died. The nightlights went dark. The baby monitor flashed, showing the small bed where a little girl lay sleeping, arms spread wide.

A notification popped up on the screen: Battery low. Power-saving mode activated. Estimated time remaining: 2 hours.

Darkness fell. Interrupted only by a single, blinking red light.

Blink — darkness. Blink — darkness. Blink — darkness… darkness… darkness.

Bedlam tensed. Let it work. Please, let it work. She began to pray to her gods. Her unborn baby stirred. She placed a clawed hand on her belly.

“Just a little longer, my dear. Just a little longer. Hold on.”

Time crawled, thick and slow as black tar.

Red flash — darkness. Red flash — darkness. Flash — darkness. Flash — darkness. Darkness… Darkness… Darkness.

Timidly, uncertainly, Bedlam emerged from beneath the bed. The white-as-sugar leg still dangled. At last, she silenced her hunger.​

The bedroom door creaked open.

A blond head peeked through the crack.

“…Mom? Mom?!”