immobile—a statue among the living.
And the dying.
Ky’s big palm presses into the hybrid’s shoulder and he pushes him back down on the table as my mother skitters close to him with something small in her hand. Ripper whines and prances back and forth at our feet, anxiously walking as if the little dog is confused. The clattering of his nails as he paces below us is all I hear, and I find myself relating to the small dog's nervousness.
My mother wipes quickly at the flowing wound on Forty-four’s neck, her head bent close to the gushing blood. After a minute, she loosens a breath and nods to Forty-four with a nervous smile. When she leans back from the chaos, I see in her hand a pair of tweezers and in the tweezers a small square metal chip.
Forty-four leaps from the table and takes long strides into the next room, the laundry room. His hand is gripping his neck and his blood runs between his fingers, a bit slower now but still streaming over his hands.
He brings in his backpack. His blood is smeared all over the bag’s handle. And now that I’m looking around, his blood is everywhere. It trails the room with little bloody paw prints and large shoe prints mapping the area. It covers the counter he’s now standing near. It covers the table that my hands are still flat against. I lift my palms and find they are red as well. My astounded eyes stare at my stained hands in disbelief as Forty-four continues sorting through the bag.
In a gruff noise, Forty-four clears his throat, and I slowly look up at him. He’s stopped holding his neck and only an insignificant wound remains there.
With a gentle grip, he grasps the now red squirrel tightly in his hand. The animal shakes and squeaks and is now sticky with blood. Around the squirming animal’s neck is the chip. It’s tied tightly there with a bit of string.
Forty-four hands the restless animal to Ky. “Take him back to the forest,” he says in a hoarse voice and then walks away, his boots echoing through the house.
Ky nods sternly, reflecting the soldier he once was. A moment passes as he takes one long look at my mother, like he’s telling her something before he walks out of the room. I hear the washer scrape against the floor, and then the door quietly closes behind him.
The house is silent again.
In a mess of bloody clothes, Forty-four comes back from the other room with what seems like a pair of clippers in his hands. He sticks his fingers into the side of his mouth feeling around at the back of his jaw. I look away already aware of where this is going. After a few seconds, I hear the snapping sound of metal and then again as he clips wires on each side of his jaw. I peer back at him as he removes the wires from his mouth, flinging the thin metal to the ground. He opens and closes his mouth over and over again.
Without a word, my mother leaves the room, probably to watch out the back door until Ky returns. I find myself staring blankly at Forty-four as he paces the kitchen. It’s dark and the room isn’t very big, but he is making it his purpose to do something as simple as carefully walking the length of the room. Again. And again. And again.
Intense attention drifts my way. He stops pacing when he realizes I’m staring at him. I look down at my hands that I still have half raised with my bloody palms face up.
He stands there across the room from me. He glances from my eyes to my hands and then back again. Several times, before slowly walking toward me.
With steady fingers, he opens his bag on the tile floor and brings out a bottle of water and a rag. When he’s just in front of me, he takes one of my stained hands and leads me to a wooden chair. His light touch leads me into the chair until I’m sitting. I’m compliant. Vacant. Like this house.
Bright eyes meets mine from where he kneels at my feet, assessing everything about me. My blank expression is reflected in his gaze. Dark stains line his jeans as he wipes his hands on his dark pants and slowly raises his hand to my chin. He tilts my face gently down to look at him. “I’m sorry.”
It’s the second time