Picture Number 22
The truth is I died the day mother brought home the parakeet. Do you remember that thing? It was all the rage among the ladies of the club at the time to keep exotic birds in the house. Hats with fruit and exotic birds were the fashion. Mother made us promise we would not let it out. We did anyway of course. The poor thing would fly in desperate circles around the parlour, crashing into fine crystal and shitting on the mahogany coffee table.
I don't remember how we got the idea to kill it but once the thought was planted there was no going back. The murder overcame us. We plotted for hours, we baby Macbeths. It was I who finally decided on the weapon. A prisoner of war's death it had to be, shot to the back of the head. Father's pistol was chosen for the occasion. I had wanted to use the hunting rifle but you were afraid the large barrel would ruin any possibility of an elaborate open-casket funeral.Â
In the garden was where we did it. You took the bird out of its cage and blindfolded it before pinning it to the ground by its wings. I stood wearing my prettiest pink frock and rain boots with one of Emma's lace kerchiefs pressed to my cheek, dabbing in the delicate way I had seen the damsels do in the talkies. I remember thinking how fine you looked in your breeches as you 'lowed the creature its last words. It was over far too quickly. The smell of gunpowder filled my nostrils as I dropped to the ground next to the blood and bones and wept.Â
We buried it in a shoebox next to the hibiscus bush, begging its forgiveness while our tiny hands scraped away at the dirt. We became Gods that day, you and I. We held life in our hands. We have never truly lived since.Â
