Pluck!

I stood on the front porch and watched the farmhand die. His name was Victor. He had a facial scar. I didn’t know much else about him.

It was early in the morning—when I saw him die—and he was working on some machinery at the edge of the cornfield. He jerked a bit, and clutched his heart, and turned to look directly at me. He was too weak—too far away—for me to make out what he was screaming. I assume it was, “Help!”

I don’t know why I didn’t do anything. I don’t know why I just watched. It was… it was just one of those things.

For several minutes, he twitched on the ground. When he stopped, the crows started pecking at him. They were pretty fast, too. Starting with his face, working their way down. And the whole time, I stood on the porch, mouth open, and watched.

I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t feel anything, really.

A hand grabbed my shoulder. I spun around and saw Wanda, my big sister. Her eyes were wet. “Come inside,” she said. “I just called 9-1-1.” She guided me inside like I was having trouble walking. She sat me down at the kitchen table and poured me some milk.

“Thanks,” I said. My voice sounded like I was crying, even though I wasn’t.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Wanda was only a year older than me, but she acted like she was my mother.

I shrugged. “It’s just… a surprise, really."

She looked at me for the longest time. Then she hugged me for a little too long, and when she let go, there was wetness on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

I think it unnerved her that my face was so blank, my blue eyes un-puckered.

Pretty soon, life went back to normal. Dad hired a replacement for Victor, a younger man, no history of heart problems. For a few days, I had to do some extra chores, but I knew that wouldn’t last long.

The following Sunday was Victor’s funeral, of course. It was really long. I guess Victor was Catholic.

That afternoon, Wanda and I were home alone while Dad spent some time with Victor’s surviving family. Apparently, he had some kids.

Without Victor around—his replacement wouldn’t be able to start until next week—I had to fill in on some of the field work. With a spray can of pesticides, I walked into the cornfield. It was a little windy, and everything rustled. I walked around listlessly and sprayed the first two rows. I don’t think I was doing it right.

The wind picked up.

After a few minutes, I realized that I was standing directly on the patch of earth where Victor had collapsed.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, mostly to myself. I still wasn’t crying.

Kaw! A crow swooped overhead and cackled.

I looked up.

Yeah. A crow. A single crow. It flew in steady circles directly above. It was so… unnatural. Jerky. Birds shouldn’t move that way. They should be graceful.

“Go away!” I shouted.

The crow swooped lower. It was diving toward me.

I spun to the side. The spray can clattered out of my hand and rolled across the dirt.

The bird missed, of course. I didn’t know exactly what it was aiming for. It rose again and started circling. Then, with another screech, it shot back down. This time, I knew for certain: it was aiming for my face.

One hand over my brow, I tilted my face upward. I needed to see where that thing…

It was too fast. It swooped down and skewered my right eye with its beak.

The pain didn’t start for a few confused seconds, but when it did, it was a single heated string winding through my eye, through my brain, and straight to the back of my skull.

I pressed one hand over my eye, trying unsuccessfully to hold back the blood spurting to the rhythm of my pulse.

I struggled to my feet and ran back toward the house. The dirt skidded under my sneakers.

The thing kawed, its noises both louder and deeper than before.

I kept my free hand—the one not shielding my socket—I kept that hand over my head. Just in case. I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to see how close it was, or to risk exposing my face again.

I stumbled up the porch steps.

As I reached for the front door, a spark of pain bore into my arm. The thing was back, pecking wildly into my skin. I could feel chunks of my own flesh get pulled away.

As it dug into the same spot—the same bloody spot—on my forearm, I blindly tried to swipe it away.

So close to the front door.

Kaw!

“Wanda!” I screamed.

With an oomph, I fell backwards onto the ground. In a second, I spun onto my stomach, pushed myself up, and ran through the front door.

Dove inside.

Closed the door.

Locked it.

I was safe.

Wanda helped me to my feet. She steadied my trembling body, guided me to one of the wooden chairs in the kitchen. “Oh God,” she said. Her expression showed a thousand little things, but mostly disgust.

“Is it… Am I going to be okay?”

“No,” she said.

I sat at the kitchen table—concentrating on breathing, not on the pain—while Wanda wet a rag and dabbed at my face.

With my good eye, I looked out the window. We had a large, dirty window over the kitchen sink. No curtains or anything. The sun streamed through it, and just beyond the glass, the crow circled in the sky.

“What does it want?” I asked.

Already, my numbness was starting to give way to pain. It felt like half my face was on fire.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Please.” I didn’t know why I was asking for her opinion. How could she understand this situation? How could anyone?

“Maybe it… has a taste for human blood now,” she said.

Her words sounded muffled in my head. They couldn’t quite push through the vibrating, auditory throbs that shook my brain like swamp ripples.

But at least we were inside. At least we were safe.

The crow loomed. It was just a shape now, a black twitching shape that glided in the sky. All angles and unnatural, shifting movements. It hovered in front of the sun, disappearing into the glare before shifting to the side.

Getting bigger.

Bigger. It was swooping down, closer to the window. So close…

The glass shattered.

I fell from my chair and curled into a ball on the floor. My arms covered my face, but it wasn’t enough.

The horrid, screeching thing attacked, digging its claws into my chest, poking its head between my arms. Its long beak jabbed wildly. And the last thing I heard before I passed out was a horrible, pained cry. I think that came from me.

When I woke up, everything was black. Calm. I heard the gentle beeping of a heart monitor, but otherwise… silence.

“What’s going on?” I asked. It was clear that I was in a hospital bed, my face wrapped in bandages, my body tangled in sheets.

“It’s okay. I’m here.” That was Wanda’s voice. She was by my side. She placed her hand on my shoulder and squeezed a little. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t see.”

She didn’t answer me at first. Then she sighed, which also wasn’t much of an answer.

“Wanda?”

“I know,” she said. She squeezed my shoulder even tighter.

I put my left hand up to my eyes, poking them with my fingertips. The upper half of my face was covered in fuzzy bandages. I pushed against my left eye, feeling soft cotton give way under the pressure. Aside from cotton, though, there was nothing else there.

“The doctor is coming soon,” Wanda said. “He’ll explain everything.”

My eyes were gone. What else was there to explain?

“Do you want me to stay?” she continued. “I mean…”

“And the bird?” I whispered. My voice was scratchy. I needed water.

I could hear Wanda back away from my hospital bed. “It just flew away. I don't know.”

She stood there for the longest time. She didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. I wanted to, though. I wanted to tell her about Victor, about how I saw him collapse, about how I pretended not to see.

I wanted to say everything. But I couldn’t.

And when the doctor finally walked in, he started talking about brands of glass eyeballs, and I lost my chance.