THE CHICKEN CATCHERS (1: Wendigo's Wife)

THE CHICKEN CATCHERS: 1 The Wendigo's Wife

So, we learn to pray, before we even know anything, biting and scratching ourselves bloody, looking for a way out, without seeing to the end of it. I could hear the chicken catchers and Daddy back there laughing, swearing, yelling, fighting and laughing some more. In my child's mind, I imagined men snapping feathery wings and necks in every direction and dead, cold eyes.

Chickens can't cry you know. I always wondered if that would make things better or worse. Daddy liked it when I cried. It always made him laugh, and I could never decide if it helped to give him what he wanted or if it was better to hold out, instead - probably, it didn't matter much. I once ran out to the barn one morning, without my coat or anything, just to check and see if chickens could close their eyes or if they were like fish, without eyelids. I was very young.

Would they watch as the legs of their friends were trussed together? Would they run or just stare, wide-eyed, without blinking, waiting? There was something primal about it that made me want to see it all happen for myself. It was horrible but sort of exciting. There was an anticipation about it. It wasn't me this time. It wasn't my turn, and chickens are stupid anyway.
I hated this place and everything in it. Why should I feel sorry for some smelly, old birds? They deserved it. They were meat, anyway, weren't they? It all made me hot in the face. I'd rest my forehead against the cool glass of my window, my breath a fog, as I madly whispered, "Take me away. Please, get me out of here. Anybody? Anything? I'll do anything."

At least it was over for the chickens, or it would be shortly. As time has gone on, I've realized no one gets away from home. You can run if you like, but we're all turtles carrying our shells from place to place. The only escape is to split down the middle, your raw, naked insides, out for all to see. I didn't know that as a kid. I didn't know what I was asking for.

At least, I don't think I did. That's how my childhood memories are. Some are bright and techno-colour, with full, stereo sound, and some are grey and fuzzy. A lot are just plain gone, and the ragged edges are pitch-black. I try not to think about that, the darkest places, the memory holes. Would I bargain for the privilege of tearing myself apart if that was the deal? Maybe.
You learn to hide a lot of things growing up like that, even from yourself, to cover up the bruises and to make excuses to teachers and friends. You hide from your family too, trying to be picture-perfect or to distance yourself from it all when it inevitably falls apart.

The mask gets better every day, until the outside world usually doesn't even know the difference, with most people anyway. But, the seam is always visible in a mirror. Sometimes, I'd see it in another kid at school too, something in the eyes.

The regular, happy kids had a certain glossy glow. Their eyes sparkled as they talked, perfect white teeth clicking out the words, like little birds . . . peck . . . peck . . . peck. I hated them, although I was careful not to let it show. I didn't want to go it alone. They were better than nothing. They just seemed so empty-headed, more plastic than flesh and bone.

I wanted to shake them, and shake them, to see their heads flop on their stupid, little necks, just to knock that damn look out of their eyes, and put some colour in their cheeks. I didn't, but I wanted to. I thought about it a lot, in those quiet in between times.

What we see gets into our eyes somehow, doesn't it? Mine had already seen too much. What does a chicken's eye reflect, when it's waiting for the chop? I wondered.

The jealousy was just that much more acid in my veins, watering my capacity to understand violence. I decided, even as a victim, there was a peculiar wholeness to the knife, the wound and the witness. We all needed each other to complete the circle. They'd want that.

I wanted to see the knife clip the little chicken's heads off. You get tired of being an open wound pretty quickly, and any change seemed like a good one. Even as I begged for my redemption, I wanted them get it! What kind of call does that put out there? Is it a surprise there was some kind of fallout?