Crimson and Clover
She ran. Her feet ached and her thighs were screaming, but she ran. If she didn't get home, she would never forgive herself.
The pitch black of her clothing camouflaged her, allowed her to meld with the darkness cloaking Springfield. She stepped carefully, her back pressed closely to her neighbor's home. An oblivious policeman ran by, and she made a dash to her own home.
The house was pitch-black, and she nimbly climbed the stairs to her son's room, knowing in the darkness the lay of her world more sharply than in the light.
He lay in a fetal position, fast asleep, his tiny hand curled up in a blanket.
"Oh, Homer." She murmured, tears prickling against her eyelids. She stroked his unruly brown hair, bending to press a kiss to his forehead. For, she feared, the last time in her life.
Her heart was breaking, but to stay would mean being imprisoned. And she, one who had just discovered what it really was to be free, could not stand idly by while they manacled her in the chains of society.
But, if she left her son to labor underneath the fascist society her husband supported, wouldn't he become just like Abe? Just another worker drone paying dues to the establishment?
Not her little boy.
He didn't stirr when she lifted him from his fostering bed. She swaddled him in a blanket to block out the September chill, then scanned the shelves for one special toy to bring along. Crayons; they were, after all, Homer's favorite.
She had no regrets as she ran to the overpass, where her friends used to hang out. They would know what to do.
She had been marveling at the worrying silence of the night when a VW pulled to a halting stop in front of her. She recognized Seth.
"Mona, we're getting' out of town. The man's not giving up hassling us for the germ lab!"
"I'm fine with that, man." She said, trying to sound cool. There was a seat waiting for her in the bug, and she slipped into it quickly. As they crossed the only bridge out of town, someone finally noticed Homer, who slept on through all of the commotion.
"Hey, who's the kid, man?" The question came from a blonde girl with a faded bandanna tied in her hair, someone Mona did not recognize.
With pride, she said, "My son, Homer."
"Oh man; he's not a square like his old man, is he?"
Fiercely, her embrace on the boy tightened.
"Not if I can help it."