Pieces

I’ve a mouth, a nose, two eyes, and two ears; each of which I was born with and each I knew were meant to serve me. 

One day, Mother approached me and said: 

“Oh, darling, you know how I love you so.. Please, allow me to cut off your left ear so you never have to hear your Father and I argue again.” 

I was four. How was I suppose to know the permanence of my yes? With a butcher’s knife, Mother struck my left ear and promptly removed it. She opened the kitchen cupboard and put the bloody mass in a jar for safe keeping. 

“I love you, darling.” She said. “Thank you SO much for listening.” 

That night was spent in peace. I was free from the insults that bellowed through the walls adjacent to my mattress. 

By the time I was six, my family moved to a new location. Though it was a two story home with rooms a plenty, Father insisted I stay in the attic nonetheless. He reasoned the rooms were too pure to be lived in. I complied, smiling, and asked if I could at least listen to my favorite CD up in the attic. 

Father shook his head at this question and replied: 

“No, darling. Your music is much too noisy.” 

When I told him I’d be as quiet as a mouse, he raised his hand. 

“No, darling, no. In fact, I shall cut off your right ear. You deserve the blissful silence anyway.” 

With a butcher’s knife, Father cut off my right ear and promptly removed it. He went to the new kitchen and stashed it in my old jar for safe keeping. I suppose he thanked me for my compliance, but I couldn’t hear him. Silence was my music now. 

When I was ten, I wrote a letter to Mother; the contents of which were questions about why I couldn’t go to school or leave the attic anymore. Mother wrote back that people were scared of me and it was a shame that I must be kept away due to their bigotry. 

After some deliberation, I asked if I could be in the garden outside. It was obscured by our fence and the neighbors wouldn’t be able to see me by the rose bush. Wouldn’t that be better than being in the attic all day? 

A week passed before Mother knocked on the attic door and handed me old parchment. 

“Your Father and I agree that our love for you is as conditional as the state of being. Like all that ever was and all that ever will be, it succumbed to entropy. Drink in the garden view tonight, my love, for you will have no eyes with which to see tomorrow.” 

There was no ladder. I couldn’t leave. The attic was too far above ground. I couldn’t leave. I was much too scared to finish the job my parents had already started. I couldn’t leave. All I could do was peer through the muddied window and see my beloved rose bushes under moonlight. I counted every branch on every tree. I gave each flower and lily pad a name and I prayed the frogs in the creek beyond could hear my thoughts. Would they—could they free me? Even if I was missing a few pieces? 

That morning, Mother announced that she compromised with Father and agreed to only remove one eye. I was a child after all. I should be able to enjoy some of life’s pleasures. 

Mother held my head in her hands and kissed my forehead. She swiftly plunged the rusted butcher knife into my right eye and scooped out my optic nerves. She then left me, with no bandages, to take my eye to the kitchen and put it in the jar full of my pieces. 

For three days, I slept in red puddles and vaguely noticed my sense of smell was permeated by rancid odor. I was sure that I was the cause, but I feared speaking to my parents of my discomfort. I could manage, I reasoned, it would only be another eight years. 

A rat soon became my companion. I knew not from where he burrowed his way into our home and, when I inquired, he simply told me he wasn’t sure either. He could not help but follow his nose and take pity on the monstrous being I’ve become. 

He led me to the round window and somehow urged me to take in my reflection. I gasped. I had no idea I had become so stained nor did I realize how much filth covered me. All this time, I had assumed I’d been wrapped in a warm blanket. After all, didn’t my parents love me enough to give me that? Didn’t they? 

The rat told me to find a crowbar or pliers. Told me to open the window and jump. I couldn’t. Not without the approval of my parents. Besides, how could I leave without my pieces?

The rat said: “To hell with the pieces! You need only jump and all will be well!” 

Oh, but Mother would be devastated. I couldn’t do that to her. 

The rat named me a lost cause and left the following day. Mother entered thereafter and scrunched her pieces in disgust. 

“My darling! How could you bare to live in such conditions?! I can hardly breathe in these foul fumes!” 

I told her it was alright. I was a big kid. I could handle it. She shook her head. 

“No, my love, it’s much too painful. Here, allow me to cut off your nose so you may be spared.”

She pulled out the old, rusted butcher knife and swung at me. I raised my hands in defense. 

“No, Mother! Please don’t! I don’t mind the smell!” 

“But you should!” She swung again. “I mind it! It upsets me! Don’t you care what Mother wants?!” 

“I do! I do! I care very much, Mother!”

“It will hardly hurt! You’ll feel better!” 

The butcher knife cut the space between my index and middle fingers. Mother’s eyes widened and she grabbed my wrist. 

“No! No! No!” 

Forcing my hand upon wooden, red stained planks, Mother faced me grimly. 

“Whatever happens next is entirely on you!” She raised the knife and hacked away my wrist bone until it was no longer apart of me. 

I don’t remember if I screamed. I don’t remember much except for my reflection in the window afterward. My hands were gone and so too was my nose. All I had left was my eye and mouth. 

Mother loves me. I know she does. It’s clear I’m the one to blame for begging for my pieces. It’s okay they now sit in that jar. It has to be; otherwise, what is the meaning of all this? 

There has to be meaning; for, without meaning, there is no God. There is no hope. Still, there is no certainty in God’s grace nor mercy if his grace is like Mother’s. Did he create me for suffering’s sake? Is that the reason for my existence? 

Is this love? Is this what it means to be loved? To give pieces of the self unto others until there only remains a carcass of me? Is that nature? To be made to be devoured? 

The lion thanks God for its meal while the antelope begs God for mercy. I pray God loves me enough to spare me in my afterlife. 

I mumbled a prayer under my breath. I never had the opportunity to learn the Lord’s Prayer, but I knew I had heard it from rituals of grace downstairs. I often listened to it to dissuade my stomach’s growling. 

“What are you grateful for, darling?” Mother would say. 

“Why, our new stereo!” Father would say back. 

“Oh, bless those men for their purchases.” 

“Definitely! Who knew an ear would be such a fetching price?” 

They couldn’t have been referring to my ear, of course. Mine was in the jar…as far as I was aware. Besides, they love me. My parents love me…or, at least, they love my pieces. 

That night, I curled up against the nearest wall. I had no strength to stand and view the rose bushes outside. I feared I’d never be able to see them again when the Rat returned. 

“That’s it!” He declared. “I can’t take it anymore! You poor, poor, pitiful thing! You deserve an inkling of peace!” 

He stood on his hind legs and scurried up onto the curved window frame. With all the might he could muster, the Rat pushed the window above his head and gestured. 

“C’mon, kid! Let’s go!” 

I had no strength to move. 

“Cmon! You gotta do it!” 

I looked back at my companion with my one eye. 

“…Do my parents love me?” 

The Rat only sighed. 

“Do they, Kind Rat?” 

“…No, kid. At least, I don’t really think so. As far as I’m concerned, this ain’t love.” 

“…Oh.” I faced the door on the wall across me. “Do you love me?” 

The Rat dropped his paws and stared at them. 

“I feel bad for ya, kid—which I guess is a kind of love. So, sure. You can think that.” 

“…Does God love me?” I wasn’t sure the Rat could hear me. I couldn’t hear myself either.

The Rat jumped off the windowsill and landed on my leg. 

“If God didn’t then I wouldn’t be here, kid.” 

I frowned at him. 

“If God was….kind…”

“I don’t know what God’s all about, kid. I just know I’m here, I care, and I ain’t leaving you. God made me as much as he made your parents. Take that for what it is.” 

My mouth turned upward and showed my yellowed teeth. I wasn’t sure why it did, but I knew it must’ve been good. 

“Thank you, Kind Rat, my truest companion.” 

The Rat clung to my shirt and looked at me. 

“You gotta get up, kid! You’re so big compared to me—I can’t do much else but this!” 

“Oh…thank you, thank you, kind Rat. What a pleasant feeling this is. Is this how it’s suppose to feel?” 

Fireworks of multicolor erupted in my vision. I held tight to this sensation. How blissful it was. 

The door opened, but I continued to bask in this feeling. A hand reached out and grabbed my truest companion; flinging him out the window. 

Mother grabbed my head and rested it on her lap. She was speaking to me, but I couldn’t hear her. It was all silence. She ran her fingers through my hair and raised the butcher knife. 

My vision was lost just as my hearing had always been. My companion was no companion at all—for how could I have heard him? He was only a figment of me. 

Was I the weaver of meaning? Was there truly no meaning? Would I now be a carcass as I feared? Dust? Is that all I am? 

I can’t hear. I can’t see. I can’t feel my environment. Everything hurts. It’s all darkness; complete darkness. Oh, how terribly lonely I am. I should sleep. Yes, sleep and pray I see reflections of moonlight in my mind’s eye. Please. Let there be light.

(Writer’s Note - Strongly meant to be metaphorical)