The Seagull.

At home, there is a box I do not open. The plastic kind, it has condensation. The box is on my bed so I sit on the floor. I sit on the floor and leave room for the box and do not touch it as I stab my finger and see if I can put a stud through the bone. My flatmate smells blood and I tell her it’s the box and she moves to throw it out but I say don’t. She leaves for work and I stand on the balcony and smell the box. I smell the box as my neighbours do their exercises and the dog on the balcony across to the left looks afraid and runs inside with his tail in between his legs. I smell dog and box as I walk back into my room to the blood. I clean the blood with lemon juice and spit and antibacterial wipes. I wipe the box and it feels hot. I sit on my bed across from the box and wait. My flatmate never comes home from work so I open the box and see a dead seagull. The seagull stares at me and asks what took you so long? I take it out. And I said you could have opened it yourself. And the seagull says I’m a seagull don’t be absurd. And I look at the dried blood on its wings as it turns to the thickness of gelatin. The dog is barking and the seagull winces and I ask the seagull what it wants and it just stares at me, unblinking. Do you want me to blink your eyes? I ask and it says yes so I find it’s eyelids and close them and it says again and I blink for the seagull. I ask it if it hurts and it says don’t be absurd. I can feel the heat from the neighbours. I ask the seagull why it is here and it says that it’s my room. And I say yes. But nothing changes. It asks to be put back in the box and I smell the blood and ask it to leave and it tries to get up but there’s something broken in it’s back and it makes a horrible squeaking noise and I’m feeling what it is like to die. Does it hurt? I ask the seagull and it asks for the lemon juice and I pour it over the blood. The box has gotten foggier and the seagull snaps its neck looking back toward it. The box has changed, I tell the bird and it tells me not to be absurd as it starts to smell like a wet dog. I’m going to return you. I tell the gull and it can no longer reply. I’m going to return you and never think about you again. I place it back in the box. It tries to flap its wings and splatters my face in it’s blood. I slam on the lid. The box is hot. You won’t forget me, the seagull says and I say I’ll try back to it.

Originally published in Mayhem Literacy Journal 2021, p. 172