The Killing
By Joseph M. Faria
In a gathering of brown withered trees. A nub of wind. A gasp of clouds. The sun is paralyzed. Another Indian summer day. You sit in your uncle's tub of a car, watching flannelled bodies of men circle around a pig pen, grunting, smoking un-filtered cigarettes, shouting at each other, like bullies in a school yard.
Someone is waving at you. "Timmy," your uncle shouts. The leaves are loud in the trees. Some tick off the windshield. "Get out of the car, boy."
Four men behind your uncle urge the pig over to the bench. The killing place.
The pig squeals as hands and shoulders lift and shove. Your uncle turns fast and moves into the fray, and lashes the four limbs with long pieces of heavy rope around the bench and knots the joints tight and pulls down hard before the legs can escape.
You stand outside the car. The pig is screaming. You father bends over it and rubs a hand over the large black and white belly and whispers in a soft, soothing voice, "It's okay. Everything is going to be all right." Your father looks up and cracks a smile, but his eyes are all about death.
A tall man appears. Long feminine fingers hold a sharp, silver blade. The sun is harsh on his unshaven face. The pig screams again.
"Hold him steady," the tall man barks. He tests the knife on the tip of his finger, and kneels before the pig. "You will die beautifully, today," the tall man says.
Suddenly, the man stands and turns to you. "What the hell are you staring at, boy? Bring that pan over here right now."
You look down at your shoes. They're the red high-top Converse sneakers you mother bought you in June. You can run now. You don't have to do this. You could out race them all. They'd never catch you.
"Timmy," your father shouts.
Terror seizes your belly. You want to lay on the ground with the leaves and feel the warmth of the sun on your face.
"God dammit, boy!" the tall man shrieks.
The galvanized pan is in the back seat of your uncle's car. You pick it up and take it to the tall man. He instructs you. "Hold it here just below the knife." Your hands are trembling. You lock your elbows arms straight, and hold the pan as steady as you can. The pig begins to cry, as the blade slips into his heart. The pig wants the man to stop hurting him. The blood gushes out. The pig hurls piercing sobs at you. You turn your head away from the killing. The late September sky is falling; gold, red, and yellow.
"Lower the pan, boy," the tall man says.
The pig struggles one last time, moans, and then lies quiet. The men stand and flex their arms and wrists. They slap and thump each other on the back, and slug moonshine by the shot. You step away. The tall man wipes his blade on his pants. He stands beside you and hands you a handkerchief. The sun disappears behind his back. "Wipe your face, kid."
You dash pass the parked cars, trees, a woodshed, and down the dirt road, as darkness rolls behind you.
Crows flush from a cornfield scatter and whirl above you. There's a pond on the other side of the road. Dead leaves blemish it's dark green surface. You kneel beside it and scrub your face and hands. In the distance, laughter sound like thunder. You close your eyes and daydream of mother with worry on her face. She has her arms around your waist. She doesn't want you to go. "What is he, a Goddamn sissy?" your father yells, and grabs your hand and pulls you away.
"TIMMY!"
Light bulbs hang from the trees, like yellow eyes. Bold, drunken shadows stumble to their cars. Your father opens the car door. He smells like burnt flesh. Your father is still holding the scrapper he used. Bits of scorched hair fall from the steel band.
Engines roar. The cars follow behind each other, as if they were pulled by an invisible cord. You look back and suddenly the lights go out. You stare hard and long, as the hulking black trees lurch toward you.
BIO: Joseph M. Faria's first book of short stories, "FROM A DISTANCE", was published in the Azores in June 1998 by Nova Grafica, Lda., and a book of poetry, "THE WAY HOME", was published in October 2003 by Lit Pot Press, CA. A children's book, "THE POLAR BEAR WITH WHISKERS", was published December, 2009. Mr. Faria is also the Contributing Editor of NEO, a literary print journal published in Europe. He lives in Bristol, RI.
