Kindred
A micro-fiction story
His slamming truck door woke her. She washed her face, avoiding the bruises. As she stood in the doorway, she squinted at the sun. It had been a week since she’d been outside.
“You got a deer?” she asked.
“Yeah, Einstein,” he sneered.
Her stomach tightened. A doe hung from the rafters, its entrails in a steaming pile beneath it.
“I shot her at 200 feet,” he bragged. He cracked open a Coors and tossed it back.
The garage was his domain. He had stapled more centerfolds to his “tits-n-ass” wallpaper. At the sight of those cycloptic breasts, she often entertained the idea of holding his staple gun to his head. Was it strong enough to pierce his skull?
He juggled the deer’s heart between his hands.
“Cook this for me.”
“I’m sick.”
“Like I care, bitch. Catch!”
He threw it at her head. She caught it, blood splattering her face.
In the kitchen, she held the still-warm heart and imagined its wild beating before he had silenced it. She cooked it in her tears, and then waited.
After dark, she carried it out to him. He was passed out in his truck.
She stroked the doe’s sleek tawny back as she ate the heart. Her frantic pulse throbbed in her ears while she chewed it. It was tender and salty.
She took the cash from his wallet and raced to the road without looking back. A passing car’s headlights blinded her. She froze for a moment and then ran.
