Reaper

Cold Chicken

    The sun dipped just behind the hut, striking the white curtains in an ethereal glow. He looked into my eyes while I balanced my chopsticks in hand and prayed that maybe this time I could get them to move the way I wanted. I didn't want to look up. I knew I was disappointing him. 'Who is this girl,' I knew he was thinking. 'Who is this mess of a girl who can't even use chopsticks correctly.' I couldn't help it. I couldn't be a better pupil for him. Again and again, I watched the microwaved orange chicken spin from my chopsticks. Again. And Again. And Again. And then the sun was gone, and the orange chicken was cold on my plate, but my master's eyes never looked away from mine. The blush on my face had become permanent by then, and my hands had started to shake from exhaustion. 

    But I didn't give up. I wouldn't let myself just drop the stupid chopsticks and opped instead for the fork that sat at my side. No. I got angry instead. I felt the anger spread its way from my fingertips and up each nerve in my arms, past my shoulders, through my neck, and into my eyes; my brain. It hurt almost, but in the way that cracking your neck does. It was a good pain; a familiar pain. And in my rage, my body dropped to a singular chopstick, lifted by a now pulsing fist, and slammed the poor wooden rod down at the plate of cold orange chicken. 

    But by the time my fist had made its descent downward, the plate was gone, and the cheap wooden stick smashed down into the wooden table and snapped. The splinters flew free from their glued confines. Many made their way into the side of my hand. I watched as my blood began to speckle the table. I was still angry. Fuming, but when I looked up, it quickly turned to shame.

    He sat there, staring at the orange chicken, cooled on my plate. His plate was just as full and filled with his food, untouched. He must have been waiting for me to begin. It had been hours, and he didn't have a single bite. He looked up at me from the plate with tears in his eyes. He seemed smaller then, frailer. Not like the master who had greeted me at the front gate only hours before. Not the man who pulled my bags off the ground with a hearty laugh, and bounced his way into his hut with them slopping around his shoulder like three large basses. No. The man there that night was not the man I had spent days searching for.

    He picked up the plates, his boney hands shaking under the weight of the fine china. He stood from his seat, turned, and threw all of the contents of the plates into a large wastebin right inside his small kitchen. He stood there for a second after, letting the plates bang against the metal unceremoniously. We weren't eating that night. My heart sank as I heard his stomach growl.

"What has anger solved?" His voice seemed distant as if talking to those a millennia before me and a millennia after.

"What?" My voice sounded similar to the china against the metal; unwanted and shrill. He didn't. He sounded confident yet sad. Stricken yet strong. Louder he continued.

"That anger. That specific anger. I have seen it many times. It has launched ships to war. It has ended revolutionary musical careers. It has pulled the trigger against some of the best humanity there is. Yet, with all that pure rage has done for this world, I cannot think of, for the life of me, a time it has made peace."

He turned around then, and I watched as tears streaked down from his eyes. Underneath, his skin was red, inflamed. At the time I thought it was an allergy. To what? His own tears? I was so stupid than thinking I could learn.

"So tell me, girl, can you think of a time when something like that has solved anything?"

I huffed in defiance and gestured at the table. The splinters lay scattered about, and my hand still leaked like an old faucet. 

"If I had the chance..." I paused at looked him dead in the eyes, still feeling my rage deep down in my belly, waiting for me, "my anger would have finally picked up that f*****g piece of chicken and you would have been able to eat. Now both of us will go hungry."

"Maybe hunger is a necessary lesson." his voice had gone distant again as his head turned back to look at the remains of our dinner. "the best of society spent decades hungry before they learned."

He looked back at me, through the veil of the dark August night, and I watched as his body changed. He grew in strength before me. His arms gained back their muscle, and his skin back its shine. His back straightened from its time spent curve, giving him at least 3 more inches of height. He seemed to lose 50 years in 5 seconds. His voice was hard and confident when he spoke to me next.

"If I had let you slam that cheap chopstick into your meal, not only would you have missed the chicken completely with your lack of hand-eye coordination, but you also would have broken my plate. If you ever break my plate, I will break you."

"Your rage will not help you. Either you learn to keep it in check, or you find out why it is so strong in you. There is no other option, and the choice is yours. But I will never see anger like that again in this household. If you want to keep your place here, you will not ever show this anger to me again."

    And I never did, but now I begin to wonder some things. The road from the sanctuary is a long one with little to see but ruins and my mind cannot help but wonder. I never did show anger again in that hut, but just cause I didn't notice it doesn't mean it wasn't there. This deep-seated anger comes over me so quickly, and ever since Master's death, it has come up too often to count. Where did it go for all those years? Why is it back now? Did Master keep it at bay with fear, or was it something more? I feel like it has become my crutch for change now. Is that wrong to think? I can't seem to control it, and it has solved all my problems thus far, but has it really? I mean I am driving away from the home I built for myself because I was driven out. Why was I driven out? My anger took over. It always does.

    The car lurches under me, effectively breaking myself from my thoughts and nearly sending my head into the steering wheel. I look down to see the road has cracked off into pieces. My car tries its best to move forward, but it struggles and smoke begins to puff out from under the hood. 

A realization sets in: I don't know anything about cars. I guess this is the end of the line. I deep sigh escapes my lips. Honestly, I'm surprised I made it as far as I did in this old thing. 

Hope still sits in my belly though, and it forces me out of the car and into the decaying world around me. I pop open the hood and watch the smoke billow out. My eyes follow the plume until it meshes with the clouds and another sigh forces its way from my lips. Yup, end of the line. We were almost empty of gas anyway.

I make my way to the trunk and tear the rusted metal from its home. I can only bring so much with me. Cases of water and dry food and shelter supplies, they stare back at me. My hand runs over them, feeling the new seals produced in my sanctuary, and watching the tarps I had found wrinkle under my touch. I really lost it all, didn't I?

A deep guttural growl breaches the lonely sound of the wind. It echoes across the valley of ruins my car found as its final resting spot. I turn slowly, as my hands make their way to my belt, looking for my guns. They aren't there. Of course, they aren't there. They're in my backpack back inside the car. 

I look up and find a German Shephard staring back at me. Another deep growl escapes its foaming mouth and it settles into its haunches and bares its long canines. A silver nametag dangles from its neck and gingles as the Shephard's body rocks back into its stance. Its eyes look at me with the purest blue of an unobstructed sky. It pants heavily, and its ribs pop through its skin. Rabies. Domestic. Not turned. s**t. 

If it had been turned, there may have been hope for it, but no. 

I need my guns.

I turn and run for the passenger door as another growl echoes behind me and I hear the dog jump.