Exhaustion

Another piece of dystopian flash fiction, not far from reality in America, 2025. This was my response to the February Flash Fiction prompt “write about exhaustion.”

“Alexa, snooze,” Riley said, and squiggled under the covers, essentially obliterating herself from the world for the five minutes she took to morph from sleep to awake mode.

After the transitional snooze was complete, Riley walked to the bathroom and followed the sun - stickered numbered pictures taped to the inside of the bathroom door.

“Momma! There aren’t any clothes laid out, what do I do?” Riley called down the stairs, sweating and freezing and and pacing while she waited what seemed like a lifetime.

“Sweetheart, it’s Saturday,” Momma replied, carrying her coffee and Riley’s water up the stairs. “What do I do on Saturday again?” Riley took the water and sipped it slowly while arranging and rearranging the fidget spinners that lined her desk and tried to visualize a blue lake on a still day, like her CBT therapist told her to do when she felt out of control.

After spending the afternoon at the library researching cacti, she followed the special event preparation pictures in the hallway outside her room. There were a lot of numbers on this one and she was already tired, but she dutifully followed the rules, managing to dry her hair and after several attempts, successfully got the dress on forwards and inside right.

“Momma, wait,” Riley said, as they parked. “What do we do in an escape room again? Which mask should I wear?”

Sitting in the corner after failing to bond with her teammates even though she solved all the puzzles and they won, she watched the others eat and dance and talk to one another and mentally shuffled her masks to see if she had a better option for this night.

The pediatrician said she was tired and needed iron. The school said she was so far ahead it didn’t matter if she was there or not. The therapist thought it might be unresolved issues surrounding the disappearance of her dad. Momma whispered about “depression” on the phone to her friends, but Riley knew in her heart that none of that was quite right.

“It’s called autistic burnout, Momma,” Riley said, handing over her iPad. “Dr. Google says that’s what I have. It’s like being massively exhausted from always trying to be understood; from my brain being awake even when I’m sleeping, and from trying to fit into a world that isn’t really made for me.” Momma nodded, while frantically trying to erase the search history.

The pounding on the door didn’t startle them as much as they thought it would when they practiced their drills. Riley slid under her bed, momma pulled her Glock.

The men broke in the door: “We know you’re home, you can’t hide from DOGE.” That seemed unfortunately true, but you could drop them by surprise from the top of the stairs.

Riley followed the emergency evacuation placard she kept between the mattresses, gathering the go bags with fake IDs and cash. Momma dragged the bodies out behind the garage where she kept the last man that tried to hurt Riley. At the park, Momma changed the license plates and they both put on their disguises to match the new IDs.

Momma brought water and coffee into Riley’s bedroom and opened the curtains overlooking the Geirangerfjord. “Rise and shine, love,” Momma said. Riley hugged her, realigned the fidget spinners, and followed the workday pictorial.

They walked through the crisp sunshine to the farm where they worked, only occasionally looking over their shoulders to make sure the past wasn’t yet following.