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No one answered.
It stared up at him, eyes congealed, its whiskers standing rigid. The stench permeated the air and was relentless. A drove of flies, backs a shiny green, settled, lifted in frustrated flight, resettled.
He could smell it. He liked the smell. It soothed him in a way that was foreign and exciting because he knew he wasn’t supposed to like it.
A tangle of slimy intestine spilled from its underside. The flies swarmed here, but were by no means confined.
“Do you think I can make its guts squirt out?” He spoke to no one. He spoke to himself and the dead thing. He spoke to no one.
The boy, young, maybe ten years old, imagined sinking his tennis-shoed foot into the rough flesh, applying only slow and steady pressure at first. Then hard and fast until nothing more could be crushed. Maybe its eyes would bulge out. Maybe its guts would squirt out. His shoe would be caked with guts and blood and juices and that God-awful stench.
He relished the thought. His saliva glands worked overtime. His palms grew sweaty.
A step closer.
The flies were louder now. They were angry. Someone (no one) had entered the territory around their possession. He wasn’t sure whether the flies were eating it or using it as a maggot factory. Either way, it didn’t matter. Maggots would only sweeten the sound, their soft bodies adding to the orchestra. The pleasure would be that much greater.
The dead thing’s mouth stood open in a perpetual gawk. The boy wondered how much would come out of its mouth. He intended to find out. He intended to enjoy every moment of desecrating the remains of this creature.
He moved to it. He stood over it. He was excited now. His heart raced. His body shook. His palms glistened with sweat.
He lifted his foot, poised it above the decaying, rancid creature. He examined once more the stiff whiskers. The rough flesh. The spill of insides on the outside. He stared into the congealed eye.
“Thank you,” he told it. He told no one.
He stared a moment longer.
“Hey! Hey boy!” An older man’s voice. The boy didn’t register it. “Hey! Get on way from there, boy! Ain’t no tellin’ watchu catch from it!”
He turned his head—saw an approaching man. His foot remained poised.
“Watchu doin’ with that catfish anyhow, boy? Ain’t yo mama ever tolju not ta mess with no dead thangs? Whyontchu jus come on—” he froze in place, put his hand to his nose, grimaced in disgust.
The boy snapped his eyes back to the fish. He lowered his foot. Slow and steady at first. Then hard and fast.
A low squishing sound (not what he expected) and a few soft pops of air. The guts didrush from the hole and also from its anus. Some came from its mouth. The rotten odor intensified dramatically.
The boy wanted to smile.
No one smiled.
He removed his foot and bolted across the yard to a tall wooden fence. He vaulted over it with practiced ease. The man watched, disgusted, confused. Horrified.
The boy continued running. He came to a shed in a backyard and darted behind it into a dark, humid alley. He sat in the dirt, felt the cold earth beneath him, the cold steel of the shed behind him, the cold stare of the wood line before him. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He wept.
He wouldn’t tell. Only he would know. No one would know.
No One
“What kind of a sound will it make, do you think?” he asked.
No one answered.
It stared up at him, eyes congealed, its whiskers standing rigid. The stench permeated the air and was relentless. A drove of flies, backs a shiny green, settled, lifted in frustrated flight, resettled.
He could smell it. He liked the smell. It soothed him in a way that was foreign and exciting because he knew he wasn’t supposed to like it.
A tangle of slimy intestine spilled from its underside. The flies swarmed here, but were by no means confined.
“Do you think I can make its guts squirt out?” He spoke to no one. He spoke to himself and the dead thing. He spoke to no one.
The boy, young, maybe ten years old, imagined sinking his tennis-shoed foot into the rough flesh, applying only slow and steady pressure at first. Then hard and fast until nothing more could be crushed. Maybe its eyes would bulge out. Maybe its guts would squirt out. His shoe would be caked with guts and blood and juices and that God-awful stench.
He relished the thought. His saliva glands worked overtime. His palms grew sweaty.
A step closer.
The flies were louder now. They were angry. Someone (no one) had entered the territory around their possession. He wasn’t sure whether the flies were eating it or using it as a maggot factory. Either way, it didn’t matter. Maggots would only sweeten the sound, their soft bodies adding to the orchestra. The pleasure would be that much greater.
The dead thing’s mouth stood open in a perpetual gawk. The boy wondered how much would come out of its mouth. He intended to find out. He intended to enjoy every moment of desecrating the remains of this creature.
He moved to it. He stood over it. He was excited now. His heart raced. His body shook. His palms glistened with sweat.
He lifted his foot, poised it above the decaying, rancid creature. He examined once more the stiff whiskers. The rough flesh. The spill of insides on the outside. He stared into the congealed eye.
“Thank you,” he told it. He told no one.
He stared a moment longer.
“Hey! Hey boy!” An older man’s voice. The boy didn’t register it. “Hey! Get on way from there, boy! Ain’t no tellin’ watchu catch from it!”
He turned his head—saw an approaching man. His foot remained poised.
“Watchu doin’ with that catfish anyhow, boy? Ain’t yo mama ever tolju not ta mess with no dead thangs? Whyontchu jus come on—” he froze in place, put his hand to his nose, grimaced in disgust.
The boy snapped his eyes back to the fish. He lowered his foot. Slow and steady at first. Then hard and fast.
A low squishing sound (not what he expected) and a few soft pops of air. The guts didrush from the hole and also from its anus. Some came from its mouth. The rotten odor intensified dramatically.
The boy wanted to smile.
No one smiled.
He removed his foot and bolted across the yard to a tall wooden fence. He vaulted over it with practiced ease. The man watched, disgusted, confused. Horrified.
The boy continued running. He came to a shed in a backyard and darted behind it into a dark, humid alley. He sat in the dirt, felt the cold earth beneath him, the cold steel of the shed behind him, the cold stare of the wood line before him. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He wept.
He wouldn’t tell. Only he would know. No one would know.