They are swirling through windy roads, bumping with height
and gravity, left, right and centre. On the way up she had crawled off the
minivan while the driver asked for directions and thrown up fluoro pink stuff politely
in a garden.
She brushed her teeth and re-boarded with stoic silence. The Lover knew she wasn’t well, her face was white and damp, her lower lip was quivering and she held her mouth and nose close to the open window, breathing the air, staring at the palms and thatched roofed houses, willing her stomach to be her friend. He chest rose and fell, her body looked womanly and the thought, the fear, crossed his mind again.
The way back was not dissimilar but she wasn’t full of violent spirits and drugs. The raw unpleasantness and exquisite beauty of daytime kissed her neck, her face, her eyelids. Reality had a distinct and not unpleasant scent.
She nodded off lightly, her face in The Lover's shoulder as he read. There was a sharp thwack or bump, not the first but it woke her. The vehicle stopped. The two pretty American girls at the front piled out. She rubbed her eyes. "Why are we stopping?"
"We hit a dog."
She climbed out. The driver inspected the side of the van. He lit a cigarette and put his face 10cm from the tire. She clambered out and saw the animal on its side. It was mangled from its hips down, blood seeped from one side, some hip bone was exposed, its skin torn open like a cheap souvenir, its neck in a funny contortion. Everyone stared. They could see what had happened. It whimpered and cried. Its eyes looked raw and full of fear.
She turned back to the van. "Ok.” She said and looked around. “Who is going to fix this?" No one answered.
"One of you has to do it. We’re not going to leave it here in this state. One of the boys. WHO? Who is going to do it?"
"It will be ok."
"No, it won’t!"
"We can’t fix it."
"Yes you can." She looked away and breathed deeply. She looked back at the dog.
She kneels close to it and looks at the film of blurry liquid coming out of its mouth. Its breath is so scratchy and weak. Its eyes are glassy. Her memory is stirred. Their best hope is that it is delirious. She makes the driver open the back of the van, throws a bunch of rucksacks on the ground and finds the tools. She finds a wrench. The dog is looks at her, implores her for answers, of which she has none. There is blood in the blurry mucus coming out of its mouth. One of its legs vibrates a little. It makes a noise, a high pitched moan but its head does not move. She holds the wrench above its head but starts crying. She hands the wrench to The Lover.
"Can you?" she asks
He shakes his head.
"It’s going to die! There is nothing you can do about it! Can we go now?" yells some Scandinavian out the window.
She brushed her teeth and re-boarded with stoic silence. The Lover knew she wasn’t well, her face was white and damp, her lower lip was quivering and she held her mouth and nose close to the open window, breathing the air, staring at the palms and thatched roofed houses, willing her stomach to be her friend. He chest rose and fell, her body looked womanly and the thought, the fear, crossed his mind again.
The way back was not dissimilar but she wasn’t full of violent spirits and drugs. The raw unpleasantness and exquisite beauty of daytime kissed her neck, her face, her eyelids. Reality had a distinct and not unpleasant scent.
She nodded off lightly, her face in The Lover's shoulder as he read. There was a sharp thwack or bump, not the first but it woke her. The vehicle stopped. The two pretty American girls at the front piled out. She rubbed her eyes. "Why are we stopping?"
"We hit a dog."
She climbed out. The driver inspected the side of the van. He lit a cigarette and put his face 10cm from the tire. She clambered out and saw the animal on its side. It was mangled from its hips down, blood seeped from one side, some hip bone was exposed, its skin torn open like a cheap souvenir, its neck in a funny contortion. Everyone stared. They could see what had happened. It whimpered and cried. Its eyes looked raw and full of fear.
She turned back to the van. "Ok.” She said and looked around. “Who is going to fix this?" No one answered.
"One of you has to do it. We’re not going to leave it here in this state. One of the boys. WHO? Who is going to do it?"
"It will be ok."
"No, it won’t!"
"We can’t fix it."
"Yes you can." She looked away and breathed deeply. She looked back at the dog.
She kneels close to it and looks at the film of blurry liquid coming out of its mouth. Its breath is so scratchy and weak. Its eyes are glassy. Her memory is stirred. Their best hope is that it is delirious. She makes the driver open the back of the van, throws a bunch of rucksacks on the ground and finds the tools. She finds a wrench. The dog is looks at her, implores her for answers, of which she has none. There is blood in the blurry mucus coming out of its mouth. One of its legs vibrates a little. It makes a noise, a high pitched moan but its head does not move. She holds the wrench above its head but starts crying. She hands the wrench to The Lover.
"Can you?" she asks
He shakes his head.
"It’s going to die! There is nothing you can do about it! Can we go now?" yells some Scandinavian out the window.
“One of you has to do something here!” she yells at them.
They look at her blankly.
“Fine.” She grabs the wrench back, kneels down at its broken body. She touches its head. It does not move. The blood has slowed and is growing thick in the sun. All it can do is stare helplessly with glassy eyes. She touches its nose and its face doesn’t move. She touches its ear, its mouth, no movement. It doesn’t bite nor grasp nor lick. But for weak and raspy breath it is still. She holds the wrench a moment longer and starts crying. She puts it down and grabs her handbag from the van full of horrid Europeans with a sotto voce “F*ck you all”. She rifles around and pops out little packages of blue pills, tab after tab into her lap on the side of the road. The Lovershakes his head with a silent "here we go."
"Can we go yet?" yells some Austrian guy.
There are 54 tablets in total. Probably not enough to kill a human unless mixed with a bottle of vodka. She doesn’t know what else to do. She wedges a stick in its mouth, puts her two right forefingers down its throat and it doesn’t bite, flinch or move. It looks at her and asks why this has happened. It probably has a whole dog family it needs to get back to. She starts stuffing the pills as far down its throat as she can. It can’t swallow though. She pushes then in, strokes its neck, touches its ears with the other hand. She is crying, the pills are banking up in its little throat, her face is wet and blotched and the Europeans are p*ssed off. The Austrian barks cr*p at her and she has a quasi violent thought about punching him in the face but the rest of them are quiet. The Israeli smokes a cigarette.
She hopes that it will suffocate or choke or be absorbed into a narcoleptic silence. She throws up, near its little body, violent toxic poison, finds water in her little pink bag and rinses her mouth. She grabs the bag, the wrench, the empty packets of medicine. She gets back into the van and thinks about antibacterial stuff for her hands. As they ignite and take off they see that it has fallen asleep. She shuts her eyes, breaths again and feels a hurt and scary sense of de ja vu. The Lover does not know what to make of this. She looks out the window and realizes that in one hand she is still clutching the stupid wrench.
“Fine.” She grabs the wrench back, kneels down at its broken body. She touches its head. It does not move. The blood has slowed and is growing thick in the sun. All it can do is stare helplessly with glassy eyes. She touches its nose and its face doesn’t move. She touches its ear, its mouth, no movement. It doesn’t bite nor grasp nor lick. But for weak and raspy breath it is still. She holds the wrench a moment longer and starts crying. She puts it down and grabs her handbag from the van full of horrid Europeans with a sotto voce “F*ck you all”. She rifles around and pops out little packages of blue pills, tab after tab into her lap on the side of the road. The Lovershakes his head with a silent "here we go."
"Can we go yet?" yells some Austrian guy.
There are 54 tablets in total. Probably not enough to kill a human unless mixed with a bottle of vodka. She doesn’t know what else to do. She wedges a stick in its mouth, puts her two right forefingers down its throat and it doesn’t bite, flinch or move. It looks at her and asks why this has happened. It probably has a whole dog family it needs to get back to. She starts stuffing the pills as far down its throat as she can. It can’t swallow though. She pushes then in, strokes its neck, touches its ears with the other hand. She is crying, the pills are banking up in its little throat, her face is wet and blotched and the Europeans are p*ssed off. The Austrian barks cr*p at her and she has a quasi violent thought about punching him in the face but the rest of them are quiet. The Israeli smokes a cigarette.
She hopes that it will suffocate or choke or be absorbed into a narcoleptic silence. She throws up, near its little body, violent toxic poison, finds water in her little pink bag and rinses her mouth. She grabs the bag, the wrench, the empty packets of medicine. She gets back into the van and thinks about antibacterial stuff for her hands. As they ignite and take off they see that it has fallen asleep. She shuts her eyes, breaths again and feels a hurt and scary sense of de ja vu. The Lover does not know what to make of this. She looks out the window and realizes that in one hand she is still clutching the stupid wrench.
