PART 1
The peaks and valleys of this mountain town are unbearably familiar. I don’t mean the landscape itself, but rather the vertigo it spurs within me; the tight feeling in my own chest, that roller-coaster dip heaviness, you know…more of an ache than a sting. Like the joy I feel as I race down the winding country road, the stretch of green land is alive, endless, perfect, unchanging; all the while, I am vaguely aware of the mountains in the distance, the elevation equated with danger, the steep and sudden drops. They serve as a constant reminder that I must eventually leave the comforting flawlessness of this place.
I fly through on my bike, cutting into the thick scent of fertilizer as it fills my lungs, my face, my heart, my legs, my bones. Flies zipping through my hair, I am happy to offer them a place of temporary shade as long as it means I get to be a part of this secret society, even if for just a split second. My legs pump faster and faster, burning while I am trying to drive myself deeper in this impeccable peacefulness while at once racing away, leaving it all behind and forgetting it ever existed. Or atleast reducing it to a mere fairy tale, so that I may seek comfort in both the fantasy and consequential unavailability. It’s simple, really: when something doesn’t exist, we are not held accountable for seeking it out, making decisions, weighing our options, taking control of our own happiness. Isn’t life easier this way? Ahead: nothing but the heart-breakingly geometric curvature of the paved gray road contrasting not subtly with the almost neon green of the farmlands. Behind: I don’t care. I don’t look back, ever; I do not want to be held accountable.
Atleast, that was my thinking until today. Today is the day I leave it all behind for good, and I want to see, for the first and last time, what this road looks like in retrospect. That is how I want to remember it; what it looks like as I am flying away, freeing myself from its clutches. I almost can’t wait, can’t look soon enough and see how sad and pathetic and lonely it looks without me. This new view no longer casts it as a promising road ahead in all its majesty, but rather a used-up, been-there-done-that, one night stand of an old, ugly, twisted up country path. I snicker as I think to myself that, in a way, I am doing the opposite walk of shame. I take a deep breath, and violently throw my gaze over my shoulder, almost as if I were hoping to somehow injure the fields with my stare. If you can’t wish something into non-existence or into a simple fairy tale, then the second best thing you can do is hate it. Take that, accountability.
And then, in an onslaught of events that took up all of 7 seconds, I find myself lying in the grass and dirt. As I come to, I focus on a blade of grass and I think how tiny it truly is and am embarrassed at how naive I’ve been by viewing these fields as a single unit all along. Second, I wonder about the discoloration. Dark spots all over. Maybe from some sort of planatation-destroying parasite or insect, I hear about those on the news sometimes. I think that maybe I hit my head and am seeing things, since the spot on the blade begins to run, to drip. I reach out. It is in fact, running, dripping. It is wet. It is red. In a flash, I am sitting upright and checking myself all over. Was I shot? Did a truck hit me? Where am I hurt? I feel myself all over and test every joint faster than I ever thought possible, faster than they ever taught us in nursing school. I am virtually unscathed.
I take just a few selfish seconds to ignore the unanswered question of blood source and count my blessings and then- then I hear it. The screeching. The inhuman scream, the positively excruciating, primitive snarl that haunts me to this day. I don’t want to, but slowly I roll over, toward the road, toward the noise.
PART 2
There lies, in the center of the road, a ball of fiery orange, the noises coming from deep inside. I don’t want to, but I drop to all fours and inch my way through the grass, the dry, short buzzcut burning my already scraped knees. I continue on this way until I’m an arms length away from the unmoving, baying mound. I see the tail, the unmistakable diamond-esque eyes, the whiskers, even the screaming now has a certain “meow” ring to it (although this last part may just be in my head, added after the fact for effect). It all makes sense now. A cat. I make the horrific connections as I sweep my head in slow motion (or so it feels) first to the left, then to the right, my gaze finally falling upon my bike, tires glistening wet and red in the sun. I look around desperately but there is no one in sight. Instinctively, I reach out. In one surprisingly nimble motion it lashes out and digs its claws deep into the flesh of my thumb. I yelp and retreat, can’t help but feel a little content with my punishment. One step closer to justice, I suppose. Still on all fours, I cross one hand over the other and drop my forehead onto it and begin to sob. The road smells of heat, manure and tar and for a moment I inhale deeply, wishing and willing every carcinogenic molecule into my face, mouth, throat, soul. I am not sure whether to run, to reach out, to knock on a door, to call someone, to vomit, to kill myself, to kill the cat, to go to confession. I am positive each of these things will need to be done eventually, though the order is what’s unknown.
I don’t want to, but I raise my head again and look at it. Its eyes piercing, knowing, blaming, hating, hurting, begging. It knows. It knows I did this to it. I am still at a loss. What to do? I jump into action at last, rising to my feet and running back to my where my backpack is, where my own body was thrown after the accident. I rifle through, find my phone and check it: just as I suspected, not one god damn bar of service. Civilization atleast 5 miles away in either direction, and even then just a gas station. I run back to the cat. The howling has mostly subsided by now, and instead has been replaced by an irregular breathing pattern. In out, in out, in out. In. Out. In. Out. A seemingly endless pause. What we would call Cheyne-stokes respirations in school, a sign of impending death. Loss of brain function. Multi-system organ failure.
I decide to test my luck again, albeit more thoughtfully. This time, I lay on my belly, at eye level with the animal, and reach out. Thankfully it does not have the energy to show its distaste for my presence. My hand rests on its back, which is alarmingly hot from the blazing sun and lack of shade. I feel the expansion and collapse of its lungs under my hand, and it is now that I finally allow myself to take in all of the damage. Its pupils are tiny pinpoints now, one might think from the brightness of the sun but I know better. Hypoxic-anoxic brain injury. Fresh blood runs from its nose and mouth. Further down, I realize its body is twisted and warped in ways I’ve never seen, nor have ever cared to. The soft flesh of the cat’s underbelly has been torn open by the thick rubber teeth of my tire, or perhaps exploded under the pressure. Entrails hang, peeking out and pulsing with every breath, the sun causing them to glimmer in some parts and dry up in others. I have an innate impulse to tuck them back inside, for dignity purposes, for aesthetic purposes, but I hold back. I am suddenly exhausted. I rest my head on the road, the warm gravel pressing into my cheek. I stroke its fur, not really sure which of us I am trying to comfort through this act. I find its eyes, and I force myself to stare into them. I have the sudden urge to scream, to cry out in anger an frustration. What the fuck were you doing in the road, cat? Why are you so stupid, cat? What business does a cat even have crossing a street? Now you’re dead, hope you’re fucking happy.
But I don’t. I continue to lay there, to cry softly and to pet it. Its breathing slows further and its muscles begin to quiver beneath my hand. I feel as if I should press my hands harder, pet faster, anything to streamline the life from my body through my palms and into its skin more efficiently. But this is clearly not logical. So instead I continue to lay, staring into its eyes as the life slowly flickers, dims, and eventually goes out. Once I am sure it is dead, I allow myself to finally look away. I roll over onto my back, running through the entire event in my head. I think of the crossroads created between this cat and myself, how ironic that both he (or she) and I seemed to be running, though I’m not sure if I was running to or away from something. Not sure if it knew either. And to be honest, at this moment it doesn’t matter. Running toward or running from, refusing to look back, or sideways, or any way except ahead. Except this time, selfishly, I did look back. I suddenly experience a wave of dramatic guilt and far-fetched connections with this cat, as if he/she was my animal counterpart in life and I broke the contract of our kindred, fleeing spirits, and now we were both paying the price. Its scattered and strewn entrails mimck the gnawing guilt I feel inside, almost to the point where I feel jealous of the exposed entrails. What relief it must offer if your heart was allowed the freedom to beat right out of your chest, your stomach to split right through your belly button, all of your organs spilling out of your abdominal cavity which suddenly seems far too small.
I may have laid there for a few minutes, it may have been hours. I don’t remember now. The next thing I do remember is being woken by a grisly looking man, my face burnt, sticky with dried sweat, tears, snots and spit, gravel impressed all over. Parched. The first thing I did was turn over and vomit, right on his boots, my only thought being that my father has the same ones. Somehow, he wasn’t pissed off or grossed out or even curious in the least. He seemed too exhausted to partake in any of the above.
He removes his hat, takes in this disgusting scene will running a grease-stained hand through his sweaty hair. Sucks in air between his teeth, producing a whistle. I can’t tell if it was made in disgust or by the nature of his snaggly teeth, but at this point I am not really in a position to defend or judge.
“She yours?” he asks. I hesitate, mostly in disbelief.
“Yes.” I thank God, or Jesus or whoever for sending the one person too stupid to put two and two together.. between my bike, the blood, my scrapes. But I’ll take it.
“Shame.” He replaces his hat. Lights a cigarette which was produced out of nowhere. ”Want a lift?”
I shake my head “yes,” almost violently. I never want to see that fucking bike again. I climb to my feet, glance down at the cat, over at my bike, and begin to walk away.
The man stops mid-pull on his cigarette and looks at me in surprise, “You don’t want it?”
I’m not sure if he means the cat or the bike, but the answer is the same. I shake my head no, and continue toward his pickup. I sense his shrug to my left, and he turns as well. I make it to the truck, and he joins me a few minutes later after finishing his smoke. We drive off, neither of us looking back.
Sidenote: in researching this little piece here, I did a quick google for similar articles. ”Vegan + vending machine” only returned hits in which vegans were pleading, in vain, for 100% cruelty-free vending machines… Looks like we’re going to have to become vending machine vegans, rather than the other way around. Enjoy.