Rot
by K.R. Everett
The smell of dirt, mixed with rot and a newly dewed rain, fused with the mist. It felt thick and dreadful as it hung heavily in the cool morning air, weighing down on me. Freshly mowed grass stuck to the soles of my bare feet, the damp clumps looking like chewed food that had been spit up.
I came here every morning like this, dragging my feet through the mud and dirtying my clothes. All the little things I could do to draw her notice; my mother said I was “communing with nature.” I found that pretentious. She knew better but chose to save face.
The box was made mostly of wood that had been picked away slowly by an onslaught of bugs over the past three years, but it held together. The wiring was only lightly touched with rust, it was never quite pristine but aged as I had aged, staggeringly slowly.
At this point, it was only halfway decomposing. The bones protruded through clumps of dirt and feathers held barely by a bit of skin clinging to the delicate carcass. If it weren't for how perfectly it held its shape, the dead thing would have been unidentifiable.
I could see the shining little thing that it was before, perched on a branch, posing for any that cared. I could feel the phantom of my mother’s hand on my back as she pushed my spine in, as she always had, and hear her voice as it left a hot touch on my ear telling me to stand up straight. No one likes a sloucher.
The grass was sticky and wet and completely uncomfortable, but I lay down regardless. The sky is blue, I’ve been told that that is a universal truth. Here the sky was grey, or I was color blind. The answer of which truth was real, ultimately, does not matter.
The dead things ribs were among the bones that grew out of the rotting flesh that remained. I could feel the curve of my ribs as I ran my fingers down their length. Yesterday, I was at 110. When the number ran across the small glowing screen, I felt a tightness in my chest. My mother had some words. If my ribs had shown as beautifully as they do in the box, would I be seen as satisfactory then?
The eye sockets of the dead thing had long been picked bare but still I gazed into them. It gazed back at me with an emptiness, gauging at mine till we matched. Two sets of empty eyes. It’s for the best; my eyes were the sort of brown that wasn’t beautiful. Spiteful eyes, my mother called them. I imagine the dead thing must have felt something like pain when its eyes were lost. I could feel something like pain, I could feel the stinging of fingers probing my eyes with their dry padding. She never could hide how dark they were, but she always tried.
The sky that is grey or blue might as well be the ashen brown of the box beside me; the wire walls could wrap around and hold me just within the surface of dirt that hugs the rotten things within. The bugs that crawl in to feed upon the feast of blood and bones I leave for them could then caress my skin and pull at the forms that struggle to hold me together. Instead of it, there could be me, and I could fall apart like carefully woven cloth unravelling. I would be tragic in a complex sort of way. But the dead thing looks so free, so beautiful… Falling to ruin in this box, it looks so complete.
I came here every morning like this, dragging my feet through the mud and dirtying my clothes. All the little things I could do to draw her notice; my mother said I was “communing with nature.” I found that pretentious. She knew better but chose to save face.
The box was made mostly of wood that had been picked away slowly by an onslaught of bugs over the past three years, but it held together. The wiring was only lightly touched with rust, it was never quite pristine but aged as I had aged, staggeringly slowly.
At this point, it was only halfway decomposing. The bones protruded through clumps of dirt and feathers held barely by a bit of skin clinging to the delicate carcass. If it weren't for how perfectly it held its shape, the dead thing would have been unidentifiable.
I could see the shining little thing that it was before, perched on a branch, posing for any that cared. I could feel the phantom of my mother’s hand on my back as she pushed my spine in, as she always had, and hear her voice as it left a hot touch on my ear telling me to stand up straight. No one likes a sloucher.
The grass was sticky and wet and completely uncomfortable, but I lay down regardless. The sky is blue, I’ve been told that that is a universal truth. Here the sky was grey, or I was color blind. The answer of which truth was real, ultimately, does not matter.
The dead things ribs were among the bones that grew out of the rotting flesh that remained. I could feel the curve of my ribs as I ran my fingers down their length. Yesterday, I was at 110. When the number ran across the small glowing screen, I felt a tightness in my chest. My mother had some words. If my ribs had shown as beautifully as they do in the box, would I be seen as satisfactory then?
The eye sockets of the dead thing had long been picked bare but still I gazed into them. It gazed back at me with an emptiness, gauging at mine till we matched. Two sets of empty eyes. It’s for the best; my eyes were the sort of brown that wasn’t beautiful. Spiteful eyes, my mother called them. I imagine the dead thing must have felt something like pain when its eyes were lost. I could feel something like pain, I could feel the stinging of fingers probing my eyes with their dry padding. She never could hide how dark they were, but she always tried.
The sky that is grey or blue might as well be the ashen brown of the box beside me; the wire walls could wrap around and hold me just within the surface of dirt that hugs the rotten things within. The bugs that crawl in to feed upon the feast of blood and bones I leave for them could then caress my skin and pull at the forms that struggle to hold me together. Instead of it, there could be me, and I could fall apart like carefully woven cloth unravelling. I would be tragic in a complex sort of way. But the dead thing looks so free, so beautiful… Falling to ruin in this box, it looks so complete.
K.R. Everett is a 22-year-old, Connecticut-based writer born in Bremerton, Washington. They recently graduated from Central Connecticut State University with a B.A. in English Literature. You can find them on Twitter @humminghorrors.