A continuation of my novel, "40." This segment is not in sequence with the two previous posts.
I was standing in the master bathroom at home with a towel wrapped around my waist looking into the mirror at my face that was covered in shaving foam. A thick mist hung in the room so densely that I could barely see the wall the color of blood red that I had painted on a whim and I was continually reaching out to wipe the mirror because it was fogging every few seconds. As I shaved above my cheeckbone, I realized the razor left a long red line and before I could put the razor down blood began flowing easily out and so freely that the flow was a fine rivulet that traveled down to the left of my chin and dripped off of it as consistently as a faucet left barely on. Each drip fell onto the white porcelain, spattering and leaving miniature drops around the larger nucleus. "Shit" I said aloud and quickly grabbed the hand towel hanging by the sink. I hid my face into it, using my left hand to put extra pressure on the cut.
After a few minutes, I removed the towel off my face and looked into the mirror. I caught a swirling motion in the mist as if someone was stirring there so I turned toward the door. The door never opened or at least I never heard it open. But Janet suddenly materialized wearing her typical morning uniform of flip flops, jogging pants, and a form fitting v-neck tee. "Oh God, you’re here!" I exclaimed, dropping the bloodied towel.
Reaching out, I grabbed her and brought her into me. "I can’t tell you how excited..." I began saying as I hugged her tightly. But I stopped when I realized how ice cold she was.
"You’re absolutely freezing," I said, taking her hands and rubbing them between mine. "Where have you been?"
"A magpie is dying on the lawn," she uttered without much emotion, as if she were sleepwalking. Her silvery blue eyes, which always dazzled me, seemed to look through me.
"A magpie is dying right now, on our lawn?" I remarked questioningly.
"It’s trying to survive," she reiterated. "Two other magpies are pecking it to death."
Janet’s hand firmly grasped hold of mine. She began walking toward the door. "You must see it fighting for its life."
I followed her through our bedroom I had not seen in years, past the impressionistic painting of Venice we purchased at a summer art show in the city. She led me down the long hall, past the pictures of our kids who all sported our smiles. We walked into the living room where immediately I could see the magpies through the windows which stood from the ceiling to the floor. The dying magpie was flailing about on the grass, which was littered with black and white feathers and clumps of down. It’s white underside was bloodied. Stringy entrails were starting to show. Two other magpies hopped around the wounded bird, taking turns striking it with their long yellow beaks, bloodied from the strikes. They struck as fast as snakes. At each strike, the dying magpie cawed sharply and loudly, in an unsettling and otherworldly fashion. I stood dumbfounded. Janet stayed nearby, motionless.
When the bird finally went limp, the two attacking magpies dived in and began tearing it to pieces. Janet said, walking to the door, "I’m going to gather the bird and the feathers before the children see." But before she could get to the door, she seemed to disappear and out of nowhere, there was a great rushing sound of a thousand wings and thousands of magpies flew into the yard from every direction. As they were in the act of landing, they all spread their wings and the length of all their wings covered the space round about them and the sky suddenly turned black as a night that held its own galaxy of speckled stars.
I suddenly awoke, staring at the hazy ceiling that made me feel as if I were under the ocean again. Trapped. This had only been a terrible dream.
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