Friday, 30 December 2011
05:53:31 AM (GMT)
The squirrel's brain was smeared across the pavement, but I was careful not to get
any on my new shoes. It's tongue was just visible within its crushed jaw bone. Most
of its body, however, was still intact. Only the head was destroyed. I managed to get
it into the bag without splattering too much blood on my new jeans.
I used to have a fear of dead things. But, then again, I also used to be normal. Now
I'm the girl who scrapes roadkill off the side of the street. As I think this, a car
drives by, slowly slightly to stare at me. I smile and wave my middle finger.
The squirrel isn't rotten, it's fresh enough.... But it won't stay that way, I
think as I pull my bike from where it fell in the ditch and but the dirty denim bag
with the squirrel in the basket. My legs are already stiff from pedaling around, and
I have to push extra hard to make the rusty gears turn.
By the time I'm home it's about to rain, for what seems like the thirtieth time this
week. I abandon my bike in the garage and head inside, squirrel bag in hand. No one
seems to be home; dad's probably out again. He'll come home some time around three
a.m., drunk and exhausted.
Upstairs, in my bedroom, I can hear it banging things around. It always does that
when it's hungry. I brace myself against the railing and climb, trying not to let the
steps creak too much. It hears me and settles down just a bit.
I reach for the door handle, but before I can touch it the door swings open and slams
against the wall. It stands, glaring at me with its murky eyes, flicking its tongue
over its stained teeth. I toss the bag to it, and it seizes the food and runs to the
other side of the room. It is almost invisibly fast; hunger makes it excited. It sits
in the corner, behind the heater, hunched over the squirrel. I watch as tendons and
muscles are ripped between its teeth, its sharp little fangs tearing the meat to
I sit on my bed, pull my knees up to my chest, and watch. In the mirror across the
room, I can see my reflection, but it doesn't show up. It's just a blurry spot, like
a dirty smudge on the glass. I stare into my own eyes. How long has it been since I
last slept? And how long since I ate? All my food goes to it. I do most of the
cooking anyway, and Dad has yet to ask why I make so much meat. At school I eat
sometimes, but often I'm too nervous and end up vomiting.
This is what my life has become.
Last edited: 30 December 2011