Long fingers (part 2)

As his silhouette stained the sunset on the horizon as he walked from the bus stop, I could barely make out the details save that of the military-green duffel bag that he always carried, slung over his shoulder that swung parallel to his long, spindly figure. Mother told me to go to my room and wordlessly, I went inside and up the stairs before creeping low under the banister, and waited with bated breath.

I jumped at the crack of the screen door as my mom wordlessly ushered my uncle towards the kitchen. I assumed my dad sat waiting there as it slammed shut behind them. They begin to discuss something in a hushed tone but very clearly do I hear my uncle say cryptically about something "getting worse" and wanting to keep things brief. I suddenly became aware of a persistent coughing sound that had been lingering in the background since they first began to speak. It took me a moment to realize the sound I was hearing was my mother's choked sobs. In whisper, they said they'll do everything they can to help and asked if he wanted to stay in the guest room for the night since he lived two towns away.

At the first sound of footfall, I darted into my room and quickly hopped onto my bed and grabbed a nearby book in a display of innocence before they made their way up the stairs towards the "guest room", which, in actuality, was the second half of my bedroom separated by a thin curtain that served as a manner similar to an old hospital room.

As their funeral-like procession passed my threshold, Uncle Chet gave a weak smile and curt wave, as they  came in. As they drew the partition, a misshapen lump jutted against the bag fabric for a second, as the bag itself disappeared behind the curtain.

The next few hours were spent in uncomfortable silence, Uncle Chet seemed to be in his own world behind the wall of dropcloth, saying nothing to me. Dinner wasn't much different. Everyone ate quietly. Uncle Chet was wearing his glove at the table like usual, pecking at his food.

As I laid in bed that night, sleep eluded me as it always did whenever Chet was around. I rolled over and stared at the sheet separating the “rooms.” I was dreadfully aware of how suffocating the silence was. The air was still, it didn’t seem to move whatsoever. I thought to myself that there was another living being in the room with me, hidden away behind a thin sheet. I couldn’t even hear him breathe. I imagined him just laying there, somehow knowing I was awake, and returning my stare unseen. Just watching and waiting for something. My jaw went rigid as I heard a soft coo followed by fabric ruffling from his side of the room. Chet’s feet hit the floor as my eyelids slammed shut immediately. I waited to hear the curtain be drawn back sharply before feeling well-worn leather against my mouth and neck. Minutes passed, nothing happened.

I don’t remember falling asleep but I remember being half-awake and terrified as I fought the urge to open my eyes early in the morning as I heard the floorboards creak and the soft kck-kck of the curtain being slowly pulled back. I didn’t get out of bed until I heard the screen door shut downstairs.

I looked out my window and saw Uncle Chet in the backyard with his bag at his feet. My eyes naturally gravitated towards his hands. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. He wasn’t wearing gloves.

I couldn’t believe it, all these years he spent in the same pair of gloves and this was the first time I was seeing him without them. I watched in awestruck as he bent down, unaware of me, and reached into his bag. He pulled out some small grey object that seemed to jerk in his grip several times. I realized it was a pigeon.

He gripped it tightly, as if to strangle it. I sped downstairs and ran outside to ask what the hell he was doing.

I could hear the sound of meat tearing as feathers fell to the ground, however his arms weren’t moving. When I was about to fearfully ask what he was doing, the words hitched in my throat he quickly turned to meet me.

I ask him what he’s doing and though he was about two feet away from me, his voice came out distant, barely above a whisper, in a very slow and deliberate manner as he asked

“Hey, wanna see something cool?”

He gripped the bird even tighter and it squawked louder than before, thrashing wildly as it clung desperately to life before shriveling in his hand. His normally gaunt face seemed to flush and the prominence of his cheekbones seemed to lessen, his figure somehow filling out in a barely perceptible way.

The expression he had was haunting. It was the marble-eyed look of someone who wasn’t altogether there and I, for once, understood what my parents felt towards this man. The smile he had on his face was jarring as he had no grin-lines or wrinkles around his mouth to speak of. He seemed to stare right through me, as if I wasn’t there. The bird, now resembling little more than a deflated bag of flesh, fell to the ground with a squish made with what little blood it had left. Its wings were bent at odd angles, its body perforated and pitted in circular patches no bigger than nickels, exposed bone clearly visible in some of the craters. My mind seemed to be caught in a loop, trying to process what he just did to his bird with his bare hands, and how.

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