Alien Bride

A few seconds pass before they issue a translation in all languages around the globe.

“Those who resist will die.”

The army opens fire. Aircrafts send ballistic missiles at the mothership, but they are quickly deflected by a great force-field.

Their turrets aim and decimate a row of tanks. They’re using futuristic weaponry, leagues beyond our own. Even if we sent out a nuke, it would do more damage to us than them.

Are the leaders of men even listening? Those who resist will die. Why aren’t they backing down?

When I was a young girl, I used to binge watch the classics from the turn of the century. I know how this turns out. In every alien invasion scenario, resistance was futile.

It’s like we were warning ourselves. Why didn’t we listen?

They stop firing. The ground troops retreat into the city, finding a new post to cower behind.

There’s an eerie silence that follows, a panic so extreme no one dare speaks.

Just when I believe we might have a chance at diplomacy, the bright light in the center of the mothership shoots outward, blasting a bridge that connects the highway together over a large body of water.

Concrete crumbles. Metal wanes, and the thick beams snap, violently whipping through the cars.

That same bright light of destruction soon dims. A drill extends through the mothercraft, piercing into the sea.

I swallow, throat so parched I can hardly get anything down. They are extracting our minerals, sucking the oceans dry. Soon, they will destroy everything we have fought so hard to keep alive.

I’ve only seen this in movies. I never thought this could become reality.

My mother is speechless. Motionless. She is no longer confused. She knows exactly what is happening.

I take her hand and squeeze as we stare at the holographic image.

The entire world is watching.

I snap out of my panic and decide to act. “We need to pack and get out of town. I don’t care how long it takes. We’ll drive to Mexico or Canada, and we’ll figure it out from there.”

Monsters, beasts, alien brutes – berserker types. They are very real. I can admit when I’m wrong.

But my mom isn’t standing. She’s just staring with tears trailing down the wrinkles of her cheeks. “I’m seventy-two,” she says. “What can I possibly do?”

“C’mon, mom. We have to go. It’s time to pack your things,” I say.

She sees what I see, but she doesn’t budge. Remaining defiant, she says, “I’m not leaving.”

“Mom...”

She inhales. “I’ve lived a whole and healthy live. I’ve prospered with love. With a child. I know we never got along, but I want you to know that—”

Another blast rings out on the hologram, cutting my mother off. Half of my building explodes, but my apartment is still standing.

They are attacking again, and I should be worried, but I just wish she would finish her sentence and tell me what I so desperately need to hear from her.

I think I know what she was about to tell me.

She loved me the best she could. Sometimes, we think our parents are Gods, immune to the world around them. We think of them as controllers of the universe.

As we get older, all of that fades. They are just people, looking for one drop of love, empathy, and forgiveness.

It’s hard for me to forgive my mom for how she loved me. She wasn’t always present. When she was, her mind was on other things. Money was always an issue, but I don’t think that was where her problems stemmed.