We run from the men with guns again. My stolen children hide in a stolen vehicle and there is nothing we can do but keep running through dimensions. The children are silent, hunched in the floor wells behind the seats. I feel how they want to cry, fear seeping through the leather bound to my back. I talk to them and tell them these feelings will pass. We will all be ok in the end. I know they don’t believe me.
The girl next to me orchestrates this fugitive blister across dimension lines—a secret migration from the hands that always find their way around my neck. The men with guns will kill us without blinking. Their hearts shattered and rotten years ago; minds blindfolded to the truth, easily manipulated like warm clay. They move through space for money and notches in their belts.
The girl points to a dark house in a worm hole. The children will be frightened of this place. I am frightened of this place and I am old.
“Children we have to get out now, quietly. We are mice remember. We are deaf mice.” I tell them.
Their bones creak as I lift them from the recesses. Their hearts cry for something soft and still and warm. I know I cannot provide that, not here, maybe not anywhere and for this I feel like a failed mother.
The porch creaks under the weight of this entire movement through time. It makes the children hold their breath. I touch their heads, the hair like silk from summer corn. It feels wholesome under my dirty hands. I want to lean down and smell them, to smell their purity, but there is much to be done and little sleep to be had this night.
Through the door we go blind into darkness. My heart is racing. Our shoes scrape on the wood that sounds of scurrying mice. Yes, we are still mice, never to know the true meaning of men. The room is empty of life. We sit in the corner, children clinging to my breast with hope of sleep that may be touched with dreaming. I want to sing to them and let them drift to the vibrations in my chest, but it is dangerous.
The men with guns will find us. I am sure we will not survive. I am a failed mother.