6 Digit Passcode by Abigail Collins

sense of peace, wherever she is now, then it’s worth it. I don’t know how I ever thought I’d be able to live with myself knowing that I left her in that house to rot away.
    I’ve got a shovel in one hand and a bed-sheet in the other. I snuck away while Fray was sleeping; under the cover of the dark night sky it’ll be easier for me to pull her body outside without being noticed.
    Just the thought of what I’m about to do makes me feel sick to my stomach. I cough, trying to suppress a gag, and I’m not even past the front door yet.
    Maybe I shouldn’t be here. I should go back to Crissy’s house and let myself forget. It’s been weeks; how deeply has the damage of time set into my mother’s skin? A child shouldn’t have to see her parents’ dead bodies, and yet here I am, willingly doing just that.
    My hand hovers over the doorknob. I let go and turn away, but I only make it down one step before I’m back up again, staring at the painted wood and wondering how something so beautiful could hide something so ugly.
    Kind of like my mother and her secrets.
    I swallow and slowly open the door. It creaks on its hinges, and immediately I am assaulted by the worst stench I have ever smelled. Once, when I was little, my family went to stay with my father’s parents over Christmas and forgot to throw out a package of ground beef my mother left out on the countertop to thaw; when we got back, a week later, the entire kitchen smelled of rotten meat, and it took days of scrubbing and spraying before the scent finally dissipated. The entire house reeks of the same odor, only this time it’s ten times stronger and I don’t think any amount of cleaning could get rid of it.
    Turning my head away from the blood spatter on the floor where my father was murdered, I make my way to the staircase. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of what looks like a patch of torn skin with a clump of dark hair along one side. I suppress the urge to retch, and pull my eyes away.
    I half expect – and wholly hope – that my mother’s body will have vanished just like my father’s, but such luck tends not to come more than once, especially in a situation like this. I open the door to her room, and there she is, in the same position she died in.
    This time, I can’t stop the gag that rips through my throat. I double over and heave, the entire contents of my stomach coming up in waves. Even after I’ve thrown up all that I can, I still retch a few more times until I’m able to control it. My gags turn into coughs, and then into wheezes. I feel lightheaded and every time I stand up straight, white patches dance in front of my eyes. I guess I’ll just have to crouch to do this, then, because I’m not about to back down now.
    “Mother, what were you thinking?” I say, as if I believe that she can hear me somehow. “You should have told me what was going on. I can protect myself. Why didn’t you trust me?”
    My voice breaks more the longer I speak, until all that comes out are pitiful sobs and coughs. I’m crying, and I’m ashamed of myself, and all I want is for my mother to hold me and comfort me and keep me safe.
    “You tried. I know you did. But I’d rather you had talked to me about it first. We could have done something together . If you died to protect me, then who’s left? I’m all alone now. You left me alone , Mama!”
    I sniff and take a deep breath, wiping my eyes and my nose off with the sleeves of my sweater. I love her – so much – but I’m also angry with her. And I hate myself for being angry with someone I love. Especially someone who loved me enough to die for me.
    I chance a quick look at the body on the floor and immediately wish I hadn’t. Her hair is so brittle it’s already begun to flake off; her skin is stretched painfully thin and sinks so deeply over her bones that I can see the shape of her skeleton underneath. She looks so fragile, I’m afraid to touch her. What if she breaks apart in my