PIECE NUMERO TRE

Kara Curtin 3-2-10

Continuation of the Parrot Story

As the harsh sound of my cage being handled filled the air, we walked up the pathway to the familiar, creamy white house. The door creaked open as the distinct smell in which I knew all too well smothered my cage. It’s just as I left it, I thought. I was gently handed to the meat packer who threw my cage carelessly across the room and into a dark corner. They disappeared into the kitchen, which was blocked from my view by a wall with many pictures hanging- pictures of me, pictures of us. She hasn’t forgotten, I know she hasn’t. My eyes darted around the room, looking for signs of a permanent guest. Well, there’s two men’s jacket’s on the coat rack, and an ash tray on the dark wood coffee table. She was never a smoker, but I prayed that she started since I’ve been gone.
All I could hear was a muttered conversation between the two, and it was getting louder as it progressed. I strained my ears and shuffled to the front of my cage to listen intently. “I don’t see why you can’t let me have my way, just once!” She said in a tone I recognized immediately- it was her furious voice. I didn’t even have to see, because I knew that along with that shriek, her eyes were wide and her brows firm, just the way they used to be.
“I don’t want chicken tonight!” The meat packer roared in response. I sighed with unbelief and discontent. Are they really fighting about what to have for dinner? The way it sounded, a war was about to begin in that kitchen. She was always patient and passive, and I knew this explosion of anger was the work of the meat packer.
An empty, aching feeling filled my stomach and I couldn’t help but wince as tears slowly fell from my eyes. What has happened? Her nut brown eyes were always full of joy and pure happiness as I remember. The dresses she wore were bright and peppy, matching her bubbly personality. This is not the woman I saw, not at all. She stalked into the living room, and I instantly straightened up as my eyes followed her every move, searching for a familiar sign from the woman I once knew. She ungracefully fell onto the couch and remarked, “Well then, you can make whatever you want to eat yourself.” She threw her feet up onto the coffee table, reached for the remote, and clicked the “power” button as the television came alive with a bright light illuminating the dark living room. This is around the time where she would be tying her jogging sneakers and going out for a run, then coming back, and cuddling with me while the fire churned out the perfect amount of light- just enough to see her radiant face in the darkness.
RING! RING! RING! The phone filled the house with a high pitched tone. “Get the phone!” She screamed not very lady like. The sound of her tired, strained, unhappy voice pierced my ears, and my heart.