Mare Nostrum
I felt sorry for the poor thing.
Several weeks ago I saw the
pigeon, flapping miserably along the ground in desperate, drunken circles. It
had broken its wing and couldn�t fly. A tender feeling invaded my heart, one I
hadn�t felt in a long time and I was seized by the sudden urge to snatch the
little darling up-clutch it tightly to my breast and *save * it.
I was
prepared to play the little nursemaid. I made a box to hang outside of the
window, thinking it would enjoy the view of other birds as it healed and the
sun, which I never enjoyed, but birds seemed to care for. I was going to make it
strong , heal it. I was going to give it life.
Scrabbling in the dirt at
the corners of the room, I found little spiders and roaches that squirmed
between my fingers as I plucked them from the cigarette wrappers and leaves that
blew in from outside each time one of the *others * came or went. I would hold
them out in offering and the small black eyes would stare at me-almost in
accusation of its injuries. It blamed me for not being dead and for being
trapped here in a situation not of its choosing.
I would crack the
window open a hair each morning, avoiding the sun�s nasty rays to peek at the
little bird, to watch its bobbing little head. When the sun disappeared, I would
throw open the window and watch the bird�s plump breast rise and fall as it
slept, then I would touch my own and note the lack of same.
The others
looked at me strangely, but dared not say a word to me. I could hear them talk
about me in muted whispers in distant parts of the house-�it�s not right�what in
the hell is she doing�we�re vampire�s for Christ�s sake�'but no one dared
question me to my face. I was their Sire after all and it wasn�t seemly to
challenge your Sire.
The pigeon questioned me in its own way. It began
to beat its wings frantically against the confines of its prison, even the
imperfect, broken one. It destroyed its wings until they were raw and beaten.
Feathers fell away until prickly skin showed through and strange knobby
landmarks of the skeleton underneath. Soon, its breastbone began to show; its
body was literally falling apart.
~~~~~~
The Chinese say if you
save someone�s life, you are responsible for them forever.
~~~~~~
I noticed that the bird hadn�t moved from its spot for a while- three
days�five? That�s when I saw that its legs had gotten stuck in a crack of the
box. Without blood flow, they had begun to die and were quite black and useless.
It fluttered and shied away from my hand as I reached for it, to free it-but it
was too late.
It was much too late.
I don�t know when I first
thought of it. It seemed as if I just �woke up� to find myself standing at the
window with the small paring knife in my hand. The bird pecked at me and I threw
a small, red cotton scarf over its head as I severed its dead legs.
The
red square of fabric flashed through my vision as I completed the deed, drowning
out everything else: the gray and white speckled feathers, the splintered wood
of the box, the stretch of grass below that memory told me would be green when
the sun rose. I could see nothing but the color red covering everything-inside
and outside of me.
~~~~~~
(Like Kali dancing on a river of
blood, I destroy everything I create.)
~~~~~~~
The poor little
bird got weaker each day. Soon it wouldn�t take the insects or worms I tried to
feed it, no longer bothered to fight when I approached it. It just lay weakly in
the bottom of the box, but those eyes followed me everywhere-accusing me.
I knew what I had to do.
The rise and fall of its chest was
shallow now, weakened by lack of nourishment, shock, grief? I swallowed once and
reached my hand out to touch the gray feathers-it didn�t even flinch.
�I�m sorry. I�m a wicked, wicked girl.�
With the index finger of
my other hand, I traced the surface of its hard little beak, touching my finger
to the sharp point and remembering how it had pierced my skin during earlier
times. It made no effort at defense now.
~~~~~~
(What if you end
someone�s life? Are you responsible for their death forever?)
~~~~~~
I snapped its neck.
It seems so anticlimactic to say it, so
simple and matter of fact. One sharp twist snapped its neck and then it was
dead.
I used to think that you were only free when you died. Then God
and his son would accept you into their home; hug you to them and wash away all
of the imperfections of your life. I was wrong. Being dead was exactly like
being alive-it just lasts longer.
But the bird wasn�t like me; it was
truly dead. Maybe Jesus was petting it right now in heaven?
***
The moon had already risen when I walked along the sand to the water�s
edge. The silver light was reflected on the water�s surface, broken and
fragmented as it rode the waves to the shore and retreated to start the process
all over again.
I placed my bundle on top of the sand and rooted around
for a soft lump, it was a crude ball of soap. I could smell its vanilla
fragrance and smiled. My mother had told me vanilla was used to call the angels
and that is what I intended to do.
I stepped out of my dress as it fell
to the sand and walked towards the ocean. The night�s chill raised thousands of
tiny bumps of protest along my skin and they only increased as I waded hip deep
into the freezing water, or was that only my memory of how it should have been?
This demon often tricked me into thinking that nothing has changed, that I was
still alive. Maybe I felt nothing; maybe my body remained unmoved, dead to all
stimulation?
I wet the lump of soap and bent down to grab a handful of
sand from the floor of the ocean. Carefully I mixed the two together. I wanted
to call the Angels, but I had to be clean before they would talk to me. I
carefully lathered the soap, scrubbing furiously over my arms and breasts and
all of the secret places that must be pure so as not to offend the messengers of
God. I scrubbed until the blood ran in tiny rivulets down my legs and I thought
�surely this must be sufficient?�
The moon was high and urgency spurred
me. I ran dripping back to the shore, back to my little bundle. I reached in and
took out the red packet of fabric. My own blood dripped on it, invisible, yet
still present. I could open it now, I could *see * because I was finally clean.
Folding away the layers revealed the body of the pigeon.
I was going to
set him free, release him from my evil influence.
I waded back into the
water and held the lifeless form over my head in offering to the moon. Surely
God must see that the bird was innocent, perhaps I hadn�t enough time to taint
it with my ungodliness? I would beg the angels to intercede on my behalf and if
that didn�t work, I would go all the way to the Virgin Mary if necessary.
"Virgin Mary full of grace� blessed is the fruit of thy womb"�oh why
can�t I remember the rest, has it been so long?
�Please,� I beg the
moon. I don�t remember how to do this. �Please take this little soul to God. I
am an unworthy petitioner, but the creature is innocent. Have mercy.�
�Give him to me, release him into my waters,� the moon instructed.
I did not hesitate. I set the shrouded form into the water and ran back
to the shore, shivering as I dressed. The moon would take care of it; I should
have thought to ask her in the first place.
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