A hungry dog

It is morning again. Why? The sun is so bright that it could parch your entire being. And the ground, the ground is cold, so cold that it could steal your spirit. There are kids crying for their mothers and bakers sweating by their ovens. Oh, the hunger… if only would the sun extinguish every being or the cold ground would eat you alive, only then one will forget. I hear your steps. You suddenly get on your knees and crawl and beg that no one can hear your presence. Yes, it is indeed a matter of luck after all. Why would you wish she was dead? But you can’t help but wonder how it would feel to be satisfied again. He just moves his tongue obsessively and she can tell. He waits and waits, but outside is cold and his abdomen is in so much pain. He knows of the implication. He knows everything. He knows cold, he knows blood, he knows pain and he knows hunger. Why? It is a matter of luck. He needs to go now and fulfill what he has in mind. What does he have in mind? To kill…

I can hear you, little brother. I can understand your thoughts, but I cannot utter any words. Why? I’m dead now, and it doesn’t matter.

The night before I could hear the rain.

It is cold outside again, and I have cried so much that rain started to pour. My stomach is cold too. He sits there quietly, but I know what he wants to do. I can hear his pain. Oh, little brother, you shouldn’t do it, as you will die yourself before the first snow will have fallen. He cannot sleep, maybe because his abdomen is in pain. If only I could say something… but I can’t anymore, I have no will to do so either; I’ll be dead anyway. I’m sick and I’m tired, and he is all I have. He said something to me and gently touched my forehead, but I am now too tired to listen. I am too tired to live, and he knows.

He was tired himself, but he could do it. He had the will. As he was on his knees he stopped breathing for a second and as it rained he was all alone with her and no one would have ever known. He was the only one that knew. Another minute passed, and another, and another, and I could hear the raindrops on the roof. I could hear the worms in the ground, I could hear the winter’s snow coming, and so I heard the cold, and all I could see was not there anymore. Suddenly there was nothing to be heard either.

He grabbed her neck with both hands using all the strength he had left and crushed it. The rain stopped and all one could hear was death. I told you not to do so, little brother.

It is morning now. There is no more rain, only his tears left to wet the cold ground. He was alone as his sister was lying dead before him. Oh the hunger, the pain… I could no longer feel anything, but you do. You grabbed my waist and put me on your shoulder to carry me to my death bed, and I stayed still and silent as you yelled in pain struggling not to lose yourself. Yes, I am dead now and you will be too. I am not sad as I will be able to see you soon enough.

The ground is indeed very cold, but with my eyes closed I can still see you.

He walked back home, tired, covered in dirt and tears. There was nothing more to be done now.  

He did not have a home any longer, he was a stray dog. He was not starving anymore; a dog with nothing to gain and nothing to lose. Everyone despised him. Wherever he went he was only a stranger. Was him to be a sinner for only wanting to die? His sister died, indeed, and he blamed himself; only that she was too tired. She was too tired for this world, and he was not that much of a fighter himself. He was only a dog, wandering the streets.

It was this very day when he no longer desired anything. He would have cried days in a row for his sister to come back, he would have sold his soul for a little bit of meat, he would have wished for better luck, but there is no such thing. He was born a dog, and a dog he was meant to die. The mothers, the crying starved children, the baker, everyone noticed him when there was no human left. They noticed the dead sister. They noticed the dirt. They noticed everything. And so they put the blame on the dog for all of it. Was hunger an inherent quality of a stray dog? He was a murderer. He killed his sister, he killed the little brother he once was, and he killed humanity. He was not worthy of living anymore as they decided, and everyone got out of their sorrow and, from the very cold ground that accompanied the poor, they fetched a rock and threw it at the dog. He was indeed guilty. He was guilty to have carried in his life such a bad luck. There were tears inside his heart, but none to be seen in such disappointment. They knew nothing. But they still bashed his head against the ground and let him spill his blood over the earth, the earth that gave him nothing but sorrow in this life. He tried to catch a breath as if he still wanted to live, he only could see his sister now, and there again was nothing to be heard.

They were both gone now. People were proud, and the dog was dead. But who could hear the sister now? Yes, she is dead. No one… He was not a dog for her. One could say that he was not a dog at all. There was nothing left of their existence, except a dead frozen hen on the cold ground. She had been gone for some time, with her broken neck and frozen wings, she lay there unmoved. If only he could have eaten it. As dead as his sister was it almost felt like the hen belonged only to her. Nobody knew that his sister had been sick, nobody knew that he blamed himself, and nobody knew of the hunger. The people wanted justice, and people wanted morality. Mostly, people wanted entertainment. They wanted a reason to live, regardless if it meant that they had to kill, as they did. It wasn’t that they didn’t know, they did not care about a dog.

If only he could have prepared the hen in time for her to regain her health. If only he could have said something. If only had he been born lucky. If only would have been the world a little bit more merciful.

I am dead now, and you are too, my brother. I may resent any divinity that it did not allow me not to die, and live by your side, but the truth is that in death there is no more hunger, no more craving, and needing of any strange hen. And now you don’t have to feel sorry for me either. You don’t have to sin and to steal and kill any hen for me. The answer for us was simple and obvious all along. We need not hear and not see anything but ourselves, as we don’t seem to deserve anything else; be it even the baker’s bread. We are stray dogs in this world. And as stray dogs shall we depart.

The baker was joyful. The mothers were joyful. The children found the hen and brought it home to eat. They were all joyful, and the ground was, indeed, cold.