| |
Woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort.
––––––––
THERE’S NO way anyone even knows yet. Just wait until he falls asleep and get out to that barn. Clean the mess up, get rid of the rest of her, and never look back. There’s got to be enough meat in there to get his numbers back up. You’ll know in two weeks after the new labs. Just keep cool. He has no idea. Hell, he liked the stupid meal.
I rub my husband’s head. It’s impossible not to notice his involuntarily-non-naturally evolving bald spot. It’s been coming on for years now. It started when he was around twenty-five. But that was nothing compared to the giant disk of shiny head that now sits at the top of his skull. It perches there like a Jewish kippah, reminding me of his illness. When he doesn’t roll into me or pull me in, I realize he is already asleep. I lay my head against his bare chest to listen to the easy rhythm of his familiar heartbeat.
A cool air blows in from our bedroom window. It’s unusual for this time of year. I pull the covers over him and then myself until we are snug as bugs. He barely flinches as I adjust the bedding. There was a time when he would have sprung up, looked around the room, or even double checked the locks on the front door. He would have mumbled under his breath about thieves, the animals, and expensive tools. But that doesn’t happen anymore. Lately, he’s just—missing.
It’s almost like we’ve switched souls, if that were a possible thing. I fidget, trying to get a twitch out of my leg and telling myself sleep has to happen. I haven’t done it right in days and tomorrow I need to bring Rancher to yet another specialist. Between worrying about how to handle the insurance deductible and where I’ll put the rest of Virginia, sleep isn’t even an option. After resting beside him for an hour or two, I finally creep out of the bed.
In the living room, I grab my oldest pair of sneakers, Rancher’s flashlight, a box of heavy-duty leaf bags, and head out to the old slaughterhouse. I’m hit with a wave of rotting flesh I hadn’t expected to come up on. I gag. I shouldn’t have left her this long. I should have known the heat would get to her. I approach her remains slowly, as if she might jump up and try to retaliate for what I’ve done. I shine the light on the pile that is now her and assess the situation.
There, in the far back corner of our makeshift killing barn lies a pile of bones, her fully intact head, my blood-stained clothes, and seven bags of groceries. Flies swarm over all of it, like they’ve come to the grandest party in all the state. I wave my hand at them gently, shooing them away. Then, with bare hands, I begin picking up the remains one by one and putting them in the garbage bags.
Thankful that I knew enough to cut her remains into piddlin’ chunks, I don’t have an issue filling two bags. In under twenty minutes, I have tied double knots and loaded the bags on the wagon I used to bring her here in the first place.
Still breathing only through my mouth to avoid the smell, I pull the wagon out of the barn and park it to the side, where it could never been seen from the road. I walk slowly across the yard to the hose. The cows, mostly sleeping, barely moo as I again cleanse myself.
It’s in the aftermath of sin that a person has the most time to think. Ironically, the thinking isn’t usually done while temptation is knocking. As cold bursts of water hit my face and hands, I struggle with regret. No. Don’t do it. It had to be done. Besides, she was only another killer. It’s a matter of survival. You need him better and there was no other way.
I pray to whatever God there is above—I’m no longer certain of that since leaving the church—that he or she forgives me for what I’ve done. As if trying to reason with my maker, I tell whoever and myself that all creatures are created equal. I know I did what I had to do, but it doesn’t mean I like it. You were rich. I know she could have done the same to me too—that she has done it herself to animals—but it doesn’t make it right. You were comfortable. ...But you were too.
I gulp down the regret, reminding myself that God is a forgiving one and that this was His will. It’s really very simple. If He’d wanted her alive, she would be. If the maker didn’t think it was meant to be, he or she would have saved her. It’s there, outside the cow barn, that I make my own rules. Taking everything I know of God, the church, love and forgiveness, I baptize myself in my own rules. My maker, after all, has given me this ability and my own free will:
Do not mistake humble for weak, nor meek for frail.
Don’t confuse empathy with stupidity, or honesty with foolhardiness.
At no time underestimate the power of gratitude.
Always be appreciative and sincere.
Forever hold true the virtues of integrity and patience.
Never assume.
Expectations based on pretenses often come with a price tag too high for even the loftiest of egos. Arrogance is certain to find its way back to powerlessness.
Those who put themselves first always die unaided, afraid, and eventually overlooked.
Honor comes not with manipulation or forced servitude.
What you give is what you receive tenfold.
Truth is in action and intention alone...
Freshly christened in where I stand and certain that I am doomed, I return to the slaughter barn for the wagon. Inside, I grab an old shovel Rancher must have forgotten about years ago behind the cutting block. I load that on the wagon too. Outside, I pull the rusty wagon handle with determined force to the farthest corner on the back of the lot. In only the light of a flashlight propped against a tree, I break into the earth, asking God to forgive me. I know exactly what wrongs I do. Yet I cannot stop. And the meek shall inherit the earth.
Vegan