The One You Killed
by Michelle Barnette
I remember the one you killed. It was autumn, an average day. The leaves fell down all around us.
The hammock had been put away. We had been lying in it that summer when Idgie’s cage fell out of the tree, and he flew away. Idgie was wild and crazed. He’d hang upside-down from his perch and sing and talk bird words all morning. Later on you brought home another parakeet, docile, and pretty normal. His name was Charley, or Willie, I’m surprised I can’t remember.
I’m thinking of the gray kitten—the one you took behind the garage and killed. He could fit in my palm, fingers together. A simple twist of the neck, you told me, was all it took.
You said it was a mercy killing. You even told me that maggots were eating the kitten from the inside out. You could see them moving beneath the skin.
“A simple twist of the neck.”
When you left, you put the gun in my hand, my finger on the trigger, pointed it at yourself, and egged me on. “C’mon, do it! Shoot! The gun, Darlene, shoot the gun.”
“Adam, no, I can’t. You know I can’t!” I’m in pieces, broken down. You slam the door on the way out, leaving me with this gun in my hand, wondering if I should use it.
I’m sorry we didn’t take the time bury the gray kitten. I put the gun on the table. I’m sorry that Idgie flew away, but it was almost worth seeing him beat his wings and go up in the sky, escaping us.