Judgement Day
Our neighbor Frank hadn’t returned our axe yet, so we had to cut the chicken’s head off with a lawn edger.
The sun was setting behind us and was steadily turning the long fingers of clouds bright pink and orange. It was the kind of sky you can only get on hot summer days in the country. It reminded me of orange cotton candy, if such a thing existed. A gentle breeze ruffled our sweat-streaked hair and illuminated the edges of our moist faces. Even the evening was shockingly warm. The bird’s dusty feathers were slipping through my clammy hands as I held it down on the stump. The pitiful thing was egg bound and wasn’t eating, and an unproductive chicken on our farm was a dead one. Our chickens produced over two dozen eggs a day, and my father didn’t see the profit in keeping a useless chicken alive. My mother had decided to use this chicken in a stew, a mercy killing that would end the creature’s suffering and benefit our church’s pot luck this coming Sunday. We were situated in front of the dog run, and our three shepherds were watching us eagerly from between the wooden slats. Every so often they would let out a crying whine or sharp yip that indicated their interest and their tails could be seen wagging feverishly. They were not yet used to their enclosure; two weeks before had them running free about the farm, but we soon learnt that they were not to be trusted when our chickens and roosters were let out to roam about the lawn. Two weeks ago my mother had found a feathery lump in the grass that wasn’t moving, and upon closer inspection realized that it did not have a head. It turned out that our youngest shepherd, Asia, had bitten it clean off one of our roosters. We did not know the whereabouts of the head until Asia vomited it up—we were able to recognize it before she ate it again. My mother, who was currently wielding the edger, ignored the dogs and was attempting to find a good angle to strike. It proved somewhat difficult as the lawn edger was the shape of a wide spade and not as sharp as our axe. We also hadn’t used it for some time, and it was rusty as well as dull—it could be said that it was the worst instrument for such a purpose, perhaps close second to a wooden plank. I must add here that it was not usually my mother who slaughtered the chickens. My father took care of such tasks on the farm, but today he was looking into purchasing a new hay baler in town. Now my mother, being the kind hearted merciful woman that she was, took it upon herself to end the chicken’s suffering on her own time and had me employed as the one who held it down on the stump. She had never cut anything’s head off before and looked a little nervous, but seemed determined to go through with it. I sincerely hoped she could keep her wits about her, for she had none of the stern resolve that my father seemed to have in abundance. He could put a bullet in the head of a colicky horse without blinking and chop off the heads of chickens as though they were cords of wood. My mother on the other hand flinched at the sight of blood and became queasy around dead things. As she calculated the best approach to kill the creature, I took the time to study her hair—I had always been envious of it. It was curly and burnished, done up in a messy pony tail and shone spectacularly in the dying sun even though bits of indistinct farm debris and straw were trapped in it. My own hair was mousy, bone-straight, and currently smelled like the inside of a goat stall. The chicken let out a pathetic squawk and I focused my attention back on my task. My pity grew as I examined the creature. Her back end was grossly distended from the stopped up eggs and she was missing a good majority of her feathers. Chicken excrement and soiled hay caked her scaly feet, and the skin of her beak was bloody from where the other hens had pecked at her. My father had told me that chickens are attracted to the sight of blood, and if another hen is injured they will compulsively pick at the wound, sometimes until the animal is dead. This chicken would not have lasted long anyway, perhaps another day or so. What we were doing was a mercy killing and the right thing to do, but I still felt a touch of guilt for being a part of its demise. I looked up from the sad sight to see where my sister was. Miranda, who had never before witnessed a chicken slaughter, was twenty yards away and screaming. She was clutching her stuffed penguin to her chest as if protecting it from the horror it was about to witness while innocent tears shone on her round cheeks. Her pink denim overalls were smudged with dirt from playing with the baby goats and one of her pigtails had come undone. I was slightly irritated by her excessively distraught behavior, although I could understand her distress. “But it didn’t doooo anything!” she cried, “you’re so meeean!” Her high-pitched reprimand was so just and logical that I considered for a moment asking my mother if we could just let it die on its own, but being egg bound was painful and my mother had too soft a heart to let any animal suffer. “This is a mercy killing, Miranda!” I called, trying to sound confident and assured. “You don’t want her to suffer, do you?” She responded with a dejected wail. I bowed my head and prepared myself for the deed, swatting away pesky flies that were buzzing about my head. “Can you make her stop lifting her head?” my mother muttered exasperatedly. She was raising and lowering the edger in preparation for the hit, but the chicken was squirming and clucking ceaselessly which made the process difficult. I flashed her an annoyed glance. Though it may sound relatively easy, holding a chicken down at a horizontal angle is usually not something they like, and preventing them from struggling and raising their heads is an awkward challenge. I did what I could and gazed down at the hen’s one shining orange eye that was looking stupidly up at the sky. “Alright, here we go. Hold her still,” my mother warned. The edger came down like a judge’s gavel. Its head didn’t come off in one hit. There were several factors involved in the failure of the first strike; one being the lawn edger itself. My mother had tried to use the pointed end to sever the chicken’s head from its body, but it didn’t make direct contact with the neck. It was the edge of the lawn tool that made the first cut, with the pointed bit stabbing into the stump just beside the neck. That, along with my mother’s inexperience with chopping fowls’ heads off added to the mercy killing’s malfunction. What was worse was that the chicken was not yet dead, either. My mother started cursing loudly and frantically, for she hated seeing anything in pain and wanted to correct the situation. I was in a panic myself, for the chicken was now flailing about and squawking hysterically. I need not mention that blood was spraying everywhere and Miranda, upon seeing the first failed attempt, began screaming louder and crying harder. The dogs started going crazy from the commotion and began barking excitedly, poking their damp noses through the slats of the run at the fresh blood of the chicken. “Oh God, oh God!” my mother cried, lining up for another attempt, “why can’t I hit straight? The poor thing!” “Don’t kill it! Don’t kill it!” Miranda wailed, looking thoroughly traumatized. I wanted to shoot back that at this point letting it live would not be doing it any favors, but my mother was already aiming for another attack, panicked tears brimming in her eyes. The second hit was slightly more successful, albeit far more rushed and desperate. A dull crunch told us that the neck had been broken, and the chicken’s struggles slowly declined into defeated twitching. Miranda let out one final dramatic protest before collapsing into a fit of weeping. Flies were still happily buzzing above our heads but we were both too preoccupied to swat them away. The sun had now almost fully abandoned the sky and was slowly sinking below the horizon. The sky itself was now a soothing purple and darkness was settling over the farm; the horses had quieted in their stalls and the bleating of the goats had faded to only an occasional outbreak of bickering. The tall corn had become a silhouette of gently swaying shadows and the scent of my mother’s night-blooming moonflowers had begun to drift through the air. The chicken’s head was attached to its body by only a few tendons, and its glassy eyes were staring up at my mother and me with a reproachful look that made me feel like we had just performed some disgusting crime. “Is it dead?” I uttered, but the words sounded strangled as they came out and my voice cracked. Our mercy killing had turned into a torturous, drawn out execution. My mother wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and nodded exhaustedly. I looked over at Miranda, who was now sitting in the lush grass and grieving silently, hugging her penguin. I wondered if it would have been best if she hadn’t seen anything, but she was a curious kid and the goats hadn’t occupied her for long before she realized what we were doing. I wanted to go and comfort her, but my hands were sticky with blood and feathers. The dogs had also settled somewhat and were now pawing at their gate, whining keenly. I took Miranda to bed that night while my mother disposed of the small corpse. “This bird doesn’t deserve to be in a pot,” she had said sternly as she wrapped it in a burlap bag. “I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to insult the poor thing’s existence by eating her, too.” She had taken exceptional care of all of our animals the few days following the incident, being gentle and sensitive almost to the point of absurdity. My own dreams that night were strangely clear of any nightmarish chicken sacrifices but Miranda came twice into my room to complain of monsters under her bed and in her closet. I wanted to ask her if any of them brandished lawn edgers, but decided against it and silently escorted her back to bed each time. |
Leah Hervoly gets most of her ideas for her stories from personal experiences, and she can't go anywhere without writing a mini story about it in her head, no matter how dull or uninspired the scene may be.