The Coop
by Gaby Harnish
I am lying on the cold, hard ground. My body aches like I just ran a marathon. A shiver runs through me. I am naked, sprawled out on my stomach. I pull myself up by my forearms. It is dawn – the sky beginning to turn from black to mauve. My stomach hurts, like I’ve been gorging all night. There is a tickle in my throat.
Ahead of me, I see what remains of Emma’s chicken coop. Some creature went to town on it last night. The pungent, copper smell of blood surrounds me. There is a mutilated chicken carcass to my left. My throat burns. I cough, and I cough, and now I am hacking up… a feather. I must have breathed it in when I passed out last night.
It’s funny but I don’t remember drinking. I quit last month after what I’ve dubbed as Hell Night. I don’t remember much of it. I remember the sound of Emma crying, the words she shouted, “I never want to see you again!” I wish I could forget that part, but I can’t. I remember stumbling out of her place and walking through the woods. I remember a pair of yellow eyes, the growl of something… but that could have been a dream. When I used to drink, I would black out, and my vivid dreams would intersect with reality.
The scar on my thigh, that was real. I couldn’t figure out how it got there. It was a big, claw-like scratch. I assumed it was Emma’s dog, Duke, protecting her after what I did. She told me the next day what I happened– I had swaggered into her house, slapped her around, screamed at her. How do you live with yourself when you turn into the one person you swore you’d never be? Even if it was one time, even if I was so drunk I can’t remember it, some things can never be erased.
A wave of terror burns through me. What did I do last night? Emma will hate me even more if she thinks I have something to do with this chicken massacre.
I stand up slowly. My head is pounding. I have all the telltale signs of a hangover, but I don’t remember touching any alcohol last night. The last thing I remember is lying in bed, reading a book. Could I have been sleepwalking?
I cross my arms around my breasts. Thankfully Emma lives in the middle of nowhere. I traipse carefully over to the old scarecrow by the barn. He doesn’t need his flannel shirt as much as I do right now. The shirt is large enough that it hits me mid-thigh. If I walk carefully, none of my more sensitive areas will be exposed to the world.
Not that there is anyone around. Emma’s house is surrounded by trees. There is a small path through the woods that will take me home. My feet are bare. I can feel every twig and rock beneath my feet. I would run but my muscles are unbearably sore. I haven’t exercised in years, so why do I feel this way?
I grit my teeth through the pain. My feet must be bleeding. There is a great gurgling noise coming from my stomach and awful cramps. I dig my fingernails into my palms, hoping I can make it home and to the bathroom on time.
When I approach my little guesthouse, I see the gardener in the distance, pruning Mrs. Calloway’s rose bushes. He is turned away from me. I make it inside, sighing with relief. When I sit on the toilet, nothing happens. My stomach is cramped, and the room is spinning, but I can’t seem to relieve myself. I trudge over to my bed and pass out.
I wake up to a pounding on my door. I peek through the window and there she is – Emma. Shit. I tear off the flannel shirt and change into my blue cotton pajamas before opening the door.
“A bear killed my chickens,” she says, running into my arms. She cries onto my shoulder, big heaving sobs. “They’re all gone! All of them!” She sits on my bed, only a foot away from where I discarded the flannel shirt. Why didn’t I hide it better? I sit on it, hoping she won’t be able to tell.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. My stomach gargles like some sort of growling beast. Emma raises her eyebrows. “Think I might have gotten food poisoning last night.”
Emma looks around the room. That’s when I notice it – the place has been torn apart, like some wild beast let loose here. The clothes I was wearing last night, and my favorite slippers, are in shreds strewn around the room. My favorite mug is broken, in shards, by the bathroom. It’s a miracle I didn’t step on it earlier.
“Your feet,” says Emma, and I look down. They are caked in dirt and bleeding from this morning. Emma shakes her head, a look of recognition on her face. “You’re drinking again. You told me you quit!”
I stumble over my words, trying to explain myself. But what is there to explain? I don’t remember anything. My stomach lurches, and I run to the bathroom.
“I can’t believe I came here,” Emma is saying, “I’m so stupid. I should have filed a restraining order. And…what is that? Beth, why do you have my scarecrow’s shirt on your bed? What the hell is going on here?”
I cower over the toilet bowl, retching. Emma throws open the bathroom door. She is furious. “And here you are, once again, puking your guts out…”
She stops, head tilted like a curious puppy, as she sees what’s in the toilet bowl. Recognition dawns on her. Neither of us knows what to say. We both just stare at the chicken beak, floating in the water.
Gaby Harnish received her BFA in Screenwriting & Directing from EICAR: The International Film School of Paris. Her work has been published in HASH Journal. She lives in Sacramento, California with her fiancé and her cute-but-troubled dog, Britta. She can be reached at gaby.harnish@gmail.com.