Beryl’s Chicken Diary. (4)

Read from the beginning HERE.

………..

 

DAY SEVEN

to the bone

 

I’m not mad anymore. Just sore.

And listening to humans is interesting.

I’m learning lots of new words like predator, nocturnalhydrogen, and peroxide.

They’ve also been researching how to make me better. The Google says I must keep clean and hydrated. So today I ate rice and drank electric lights from a small white bowl.

IMG_6844.jpg

I feel a little better.

Where did I leave off?

Oh, yes.

The hiding spot.

Sweet Christopher.

A funny look melted on his face when he found me. Like happy and sad at the same time. He picked me up and pulled me close, hollering for Jennifer to open the door and put a towel in the tub. I’ve since learned tubs are where humans wash themselves. I dirty the tub daily so they have to clean it before cleaning themselves.

I don’t get the impression they mind.

My eyes are orange, like pumpkins. Well, one is. The other is swollen shut.

With my good eye, I watched Jennifer examine my neck bone. That’s right, my bone showed. And it must’ve looked gross because she threw a hand over her mouth and looked away.

dirty

infection

pecking 

isolation

They say don’t listen to what people say, that talk is cheap or whatever.

But you and I both know the wrong words from the right people can slice you in two.

Or maybe it’s the right words from the wrong people.

Does it matter?

Hearing’s the only thing I can do right now.

Christopher tried lifting my injured wing, but I let him know it hurt.

I’m so sorry, Beryl, he said, stroking my non-hurty parts, his face sad again.

Christopher’s eyes are green.

Like pine needles.

I wish I understood human language better.

But at least I understand feelings.

I finally felt safe.

So I passed out.

 

 

DAY EIGHT

raw chicken and a spider

 

I spend my days in the bathtub.

It’s nice, as bathtubs go.

This one’s white porcelain with four little feet like monkey toes curling over a ball.

The walls are salmon pink with white wainscot paneling. And I’m not really alone in here.

An old lady spider inhabits a broken web in the small cottage window overlooking the back garden.

IMG_7647.jpg

If I stand in the right spot, I can see outside reflected in the gilded mirror above the antique sink.

I’m not ready to see myself.

Instead I watch the spider, slow in old age, except when she’s hungry.

We don’t really speak. But she watches me, too.

When Christopher puts fresh towels under me, she stares at me hard, her expression suggesting a lifetime of struggle.

Jennifer says it smells like raw chicken in here.

And I say she’s ridiculous.

What’s it supposed to smell like? Lasagna? She sticks her head in, sniffs, declares she doesn’t stink! then disappears again.

I know she’s not trying to hurt my feelings.

I cannot say the same for what she does sometimes.

 

 

Stir fry?

I don’t care.

Anything but chicken.

— overheard.

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Continue reading HERE.

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The next entry will be posted in two days. 

If you’d like instant notification, you can sign up to follow this blog.

Meanwhile:

Thank you for taking time to read my story.

There’s high chicken-drama ahead, and ten days to go.

love, Beryl

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