I think this is the first non-pandemic piece I've posted here. Just came across it and obviously want to work on it more as it is even less finished than most. Posting it so I will remember that I want to include it with the rest of this nonsense once I start making sense of everything I've been writing (one day)
Just Don’t Let Him Die Thirsty
There was definitely a shortage of legs in these parts. Ever since I had moved into the new neighbourhood I couldn’t help but notice the preponderance of stumps to be found as I walked down the street. They were everywhere. Some were as smooth as shaved heads; others came to an end in a fleshy twist as if the missing leg had been removed through a violent unscrewing.
In my old neighbourhood, my better neighbourhood, everyone had seemed to have both their legs. In this strange new place though, it could not be counted on for my neighbours to be so lucky. Even on those occasions that they did happen to have both of their legs,
and could stand on them, and walk around quite cavalierly, further investigation would soon reveal that they were undoubtedly missing something else: possibly an arm, often teeth, maybe, in mysterious instances, even patches of skin from their face. There was even a particular coffee shop that appeared to serve only those with one eye, and I often felt quite out of place inside of it. The fact that I neither wore an eye patch, nor even had an empty socket that I kept bare for those who passed by to peer into, set me quite apart from everyone else who bought their morning coffee here. My appearance seemed so severe as to even cause the girl behind the counter to treat me with some concern whenever I came inside to order. As she poured me my coffee, it was always as if she could not bear the scrutiny of a second eye watching her, and feeling rather on the spot, could hardly help trembling from how watchful this two-eyed face of mine seemed to be.
But whatever this neighbourhood happened to be lacking in legs and eyes and other assorted missing limbs, it more than made up for with all of the dead birds that lay scattered all over its sidewalks. They were often just babies, and they could be found in clusters of three or four, their bright yellow mouths hanging open and filling with the ants that came up through the cracks in the pavement. Whenever I saw them I would walk quickly past, not wanting to stare at them for too long in case they moved. If they moved, I knew I would have no idea what I was supposed to do with them. Of course I would stop, and stare at them, and see if they were alright, but then what?
Knowing myself, I was fairly certain that I wouldn’t have it in me to just leave them lying there on the sidewalk—this seemed too heartless—but I also knew I wouldn’t have the first idea of how to make them better if I ended up taking them home with me. Once inside of my apartment, the reality was that they would just end up dying horribly in my bathroom sink, regardless of all the crumpled up paper towels I’d put inside of it in order to give it a place to rest comfortably. This hardly seemed a much better fate than just letting them stay on the sidewalk and be trampled to death, and so I determined that it was for the best not to try and rescue anything. When on the street I would always keep walking forward, not looking down, pretending everything at my feet was already dead
It would have made my life easier if I could have just stayed inside all day long, kept my eyes clean from the sight of all those stumps and dead birds, but since I had an unusual hatred of my new apartment, I found myself going outside often, even for the most menial, unnecessary of tasks. I did this to get away from the bare walls I hadn’t decorated; to escape the sound of the enormous generator outside of my window that whirred to life every day at noon and caused my whole apartment to thrum like it was being administered electro-convulsive therapy.
One particularly hot afternoon, as I lay beneath my covers, sweating, unsure of what I should do with the rest of my day, I thought to myself: “Maybe I’ll go get myself some lemonade”. It was a thought that for a brief moment made me feel excited at having something to do, and since I was thirsty, there seemed to be some point in this task I had come up with for myself. Finding my pants, and putting on my shoes, I left the apartment not feeling horrible. This pleasant mood would be short lived though since my street was unwilling to be kind to me long enough to give me even enough time to quench my thirst.
As usual there were wheelchairs everywhere for me to step around as I made my way towards the corner store. Most were easy enough to ignore, grown still at the side of the pavement, teetering on the edge of the curb as if its shrivelled occupants were completely at ease with the threat of tumbling out into the traffic. Others though were piloted by more aggressive drivers, who as they sped past, would waggle their stumps at me in frustration for being in their way. Those that were drunk would slosh foamy explosions of warm beer at me as they shook their fists and screamed “Gehhhdaaaahrd Dewwaaayyy” as they whirred past. Those that were sober could articulate their intense dislike of me with a much cleaner annunciation, and I could only pretend to not hear what they’d said, since I had already learned it was never a good idea to talk back to anyone in a wheelchair. At least not in this neighbourhood.
One man in particular though was doing something rather different. He was rolling backwards, seeming unable to control his chair and grimacing. I watched him as he struggled with his wheelchair, and continued to watch as I saw him back over a bird that had just fallen out of its nest to the sidewalk. There was a flurry of feathers, some agonized chirping, and then I could see the injured creature come out from beneath the other side of the chairs whirring wheels. It became immediately apparent that the bird couldn’t walk or fly anymore as it began to pull itself across the pavement with its wings in order to get away from this man who continued to roll backwards, looking dumbly down at the sidewalk, seeming unaware of what he’d just done. Getting closer I could see the birds legs twitch. It’s mouth was snapping open and shut. The man in the wheelchair watched it without changing the expression on his face, which was the sort of crumpled up thing that’s only function seemed to be to holding the cigarette that he was furiously smoking in place.
“Broke its back”, he said to me as I stooped down, thoughts of lemonade now far from my mind, even though I was still terribly thirsty.
I looked at the bird, gasping.
I didn’t want to live in this neighbourhood anymore. How did I get to such a place? There were just too damn many wheelchairs and I could no longer stand all the dead birds.
Everything was horrible.
I picked the bird up and carried him home, his legs dangling between my fingers.
Everyone watched me intently from their wheelchairs.
I would fix him.