Grinding

The sound: grinding. That’s what stuck in his head for months afterwards.

The sucking, the whine; the screaming.

Remembered how the sun was high in the sky; clouds drifted and he described the shapes to keep himself conscious. Dog, plane, horse, a crab. His father. Amazed at his own imagination, his ability to project imagery.

He’d chewed the inside of his cheek. Blood flowed. Metallic taste; like a filling at the dentist, aged nine.

There was music playing in his head. A melody from long ago. Jazz. Off-beat timing. His foot tapped along. His head nodded. The wind whistled through the trees. Leaves rustled as they floated to the ground. It sounded like rain to the untrained ear. To city folk. To kids that had never seen cattle. Who thought grass was something you smoked to get high.

Eyes screwed tight. Lashes dripping tears; cheeks wet inside and out. Blood and salt.

Lying there, praying that he’d be found by humans, not the coyotes that roamed through the woods at night. Prayed to be out, darkened, when it came to feeding time.

But, this was all hours in front. It wasn’t now, that moment, distinct from all others. Hardened like a memory. Like arteries.

Thought: how hot it is in the sun when you can’t move. How relentless.

And still it was grinding, whining, sucking. Still he was screaming.