ROBOTS FIGHTING COWBOYS
by
Anonymous

Walking by the group of abandoned storage units, I heard the screams. And I kept walking. Someone must have found someone. Someone that reminded them a bit too much of their mother or father. Maybe even someone that reminded them of the past that we all try to forget and push away. It wasn’t uncommon to hear cries or pleas for mercy. Sometimes you would hear the yells followed by a laugh. Not everyone laughs, though. Some only do it to defend themselves. But what is there to do but keep yourself alive if nobody else will? No one will protect anyone. I’m lucky because all I have to do is find Mom and I’ll be okay. But I haven’t found her so I grew up alone. The impulse comes with growing up. Seeing a dead cat on the street brings on more emotion than it should and we all know it. But it doesn’t stop us from trying to replicate the feeling.
I almost felt like turning around and joining in, but some of them get way too into it and then you become the victim. I can’t say that I’ve never done it. The first time I did I was eleven, I think. Nightmares of the dumpster I was left in had resurfaced and there was no way of stopping the anger that wanted to come out. Thrashing about in anger, I started to scratch my arms, opening cuts all over again as if that would be enough for the pain to go away.  Then I heard noises. Two voices. Whispers told me that they did not want to be found. It also told me they didn’t know I was there. The man seemed to have a limp. Maybe they were running away from people like me. They continued to look behind then as they quickly stepped into the alley. I faintly heard their conversation and heard the man call the woman Elizabeth, I think. That’s my mom’s name. I remember wishing she was there so she could hug me and sing that song that used to make me fall asleep. The one where the wind blows and the cradle falls. But then the kid would fall and break every bone in their body. I wouldn’t though. Mom always made me feel strong and nothing could hurt me when she was there. But she wasn’t there. So I had to defend myself.
Maneuvering myself up to get a better view, I saw that the woman was holding something the size of a sack of potatoes. Why did people have children if they just left them? So I grabbed a piece of wood next to the dumpster and bashed their heads in. I hit the man on the leg he limped on and then across the face. I stabbed the woman in her stomach and then I hit her head. That way she couldn’t have any more children to leave in alleys at night. At least mine had the decency to leave me where she thought I would be safe. She promised she would be back. But she got lost and now I have to find her. I didn’t bother to check on the kid.
Things weren’t always like this, but the war left people with less than the clothes on their backs. They couldn’t watch over the youth of the nation while trying to piece themselves together, so they left them. It was manageable at the start. Homes were built over rubble and the ashes of the dead and children would be tended to until their parents were able to take care of them again. But then the homes got crowded. Crime and children in the “homes” grew until no law could control them and the floor became your bed. The adults had their own beds. My bed used to have sheets with robots fighting cowboys. Those were my favorite because Mom got me them for my birthday. But I had to sleep on the floor and sleep on an itchy grey blanket that didn’t reach my knees. The adults had soft blankets and beds. We didn’t. So we killed them and took over. But there were still more kids than there were beds. If we had no problem with killing adults, how was that any different with killing our peers? Only dominant ones got to the point of keeping their own bed. Not many girls made it. Somehow kids still pop up all over the place. Sometimes they grow up to be like us. Sometimes they grow up only to be killed. Or they don’t grow up at all. I grew up. Now I live trying to keep it that way. Kicking rocks and making sure no one is following me, I look for a new place to sleep every night. I look for my mom so she could hug me and sing to me like she used to. Then I could have my sheets again.
The ones that somehow make it surprise me. Dirty, uneducated people that communicate with grunts and violence band together at times and hurt whoever they can. It’s a game to them. Kill as many people as they can in as many different ways as they can. Whenever they find old timers, they kill them slowly, somehow aware of the fact that the older people that somehow make it could be our parents. Screams of them begging to be killed could be heard late at night. Some torture old timers until they can’t lift a limb or ask why we do this because their tongue has been cut out and any motion hurts their jaw. I laugh whenever they ask why. They left us to die and expect us to not do the same in return. Except my mom. She just hasn’t found me yet. She’s looking for me. She promised. She even kissed the pinkie. If you don’t remember your parents, victims seem to be less specific. I once slit a man’s throat because he was blond. I think I’m blond. My dad was probably blond but then he went to the war and left me and Mom alone. She used to cry and I thought it was because I didn’t sing with her. So I sang with her.  
I decide to sleep in my usual dumpster today. The dead bodies in there will cover up mine and I can sleep longer. But right when I settle down and feel like I’m as safe as I could be with this life, I hear running. A pack of monsters just waiting to get their hands on someone alive and take away all they have. They are hunting their prey for sport, but they can’t get me. I have to find Mom. If they get me I won’t find her and she won’t sing. I have to get out. So I wait for them to pass and when I know their far enough, I take off in the opposite direction. It isn’t safe there anymore. I have to get far enough so they don’t get me. How much distance will keep me safe from them? The best chance is to hide somewhere and hope they don’t find me. I hope they catch whoever they were chasing fast so they don’t feel like hunting again until I have found Mom.  
Reaching an abandoned dump of a house, I look through the broken windows, knowing it might not be safe. You never know when you could become the victim. Everything is abandoned these days, so empty things are free game. If there is an old timer or another person in there, you leave or you fight. Not my rule, it just keeps you alive. All the houses are empty along the road, but for some reason I like this one. I think it used to be blue under the blood stains and layers of ash and dust. Mom liked that color. Maybe it changed. I’ll ask when I find her. There is only one story, so nobody could be hiding upstairs or attack me in my sleep. Parts of the fence have been broken off, for weapons no doubt. Stepping in, I hear footsteps and a slam of a door. I decide to step outside and break off another piece of the fence. Going back in and checking every room, I find a closed door. A closet, I think they’re called. Holding the wood like that stick in the game I used to play when I was a kid, I throw the door open.
Her once young and strong body that I came out of turned frail and weak. Her blond hair had turned grey and her brown eyes had grown faded. Hiding in a closet. My mother. I found her! I found her! Stepping towards her, she screamed. She didn’t recognize me. Didn’t she miss me after she left me in that “home” years ago? It was me. I found her. Now she could sing and I’ll know her favorite color. But she won’t listen to me. Instead she cowered in fear, trying to hold back a cry while moving away from me.
“Who are you?” I ask, wanting to make sure.
“My name is Sarah,” she said shakily. Oh…her name was Sarah. So that woman’s name was Elizabeth. The one I killed with the stick. My mom’s name is Sarah. That’s a pretty name, I guess. Not as pretty as Elizabeth, though. I wish her name was Elizabeth. I remember it being Elizabeth...I wouldn’t forget my mom’s name. Never ever.
“Do you recognize me?” 
“I’ve never seen you before in my life. Please don’t hurt me,”
“Mom,”
There was a long silence before she unraveled the ball she had made herself into. She seemed to have a moment of confusion and deep thought until it turned to fear again.
“...Kyle?”
Why did that sound like a question? Mom would never forget my name. I remembered her name. She forget her’s. Her name is Elizabeth, not Sarah. I guess mine is Kyle... 
“Is that really my name?” It didn’t fit with my ragged clothes and dirty face. Kyle was for someone clean. Someone with a future that had chances I never did. Kyle was not me. But this was my mother? An old woman hiding in a closet. She didn’t even try to defend herself. Why had she left me? Wasn’t I good enough? She didn’t even sing… She’s ignoring me and thinking about something, like if her life depended on it. Why? Didn’t she trust me?
“Kyle, I know what you’re thinking. I had no choice. Times were hard and I couldn’t take it. But I did look for you. I did,” I didn’t want to kill her anymore. I didn’t want to kill anyone. Nothing mattered except that she had looked for me. Like she promised. Even if she forgot her name it was okay, because I remembered it. Suddenly I wasn’t so alone in the world.
“Your name is Elizabeth,” I whisper.
A look of fear crossed her face and she quickly replied, “Oh, yes. Did I say Sarah? I meant Elizabeth. Yes, my name is Elizabeth, not Sarah, right!”
“Can you sing the song?”
“Uh, of course. Why don’t we sing it together? You start.”
I didn’t want to sing. I wanted to hear her voice like before. Why hasn’t she hugged me yet? I couldn’t believe her questions. She didn’t even sing the song when I asked her to. Of course I was big. The last time she saw me I was less than two feet tall. Am I okay? No, I’m not. But she should know that. If she was hiding in a closet she knew what was going on and that I was one of them. As for where I’ve been? Around. Years of being alone had taught me to keep it that way. Avoid everyone. Even if there is someone out there you can trust, you never know if they will leave you or not. It taught me that I would always be alone and that this woman was not my mom. She was a donor that gave me a s*** life. Nothing more. She didn’t even sing or hug me or tell me her favorite color and that dad would be home soon like she always did when she would cry. She couldn’t even remember her own name and she forgot mine. She didn’t even mention my dad. She said he would come home and then we would all be together again. My mom had changed. I had seen her for the first time in my adult life and all she did was ask stupid questions. 
Bringing the piece of wood back up, I swung the wood as hard as I could, letting the blow land wherever. She cried out and begged me to stop, but I remember begging her to not leave me. I continued to hit her and stabbed her like that woman when I was eleven. When I was done, I could hardly tell that the lump of flesh in front of me used to be a human. I really am alone. My bloodstained hands and clothes could be dried and forgotten, but the memory of killing my own blood would never leave. I will never hear the song or be hugged ever again. She thought her name was Sarah. Sarah isn’t as pretty as Elizabeth, though. I’ve killed before, so how was this one any different? There is no more purpose for me in this world. My mom is dead and she never sang the song. Why didn’t she remember the song? I thought my mom would never forget it, but she did. I was looking for her so she would sing but she’s dead now. What do I do? I hear cries of delight through the shattered windows. They will continue to grow how I did. My cause of living is gone. No more looking, no more pain. Maybe I should go help them relieve their pain.