Regular Headed Calf | Rory O’Neill
And when I stare into the sky, there are half as many stars as usual.
And I wonder why this is, until I remember that it was your idea to play with the cattle prod, that you thought it would be fun to take it out back and see what happens. We walked through tall grass together and all I could think about was the ticks likely finding homes behind my kneecaps. You walked ahead of me and you never checked to see if I was following. You held the prod like a scepter and the early-evening setting sun gave you your crown, a cloud of gnats and pollen floating through golden motes of light as if you were something good.
And Joshua showed you how to work the settings, being a real city mouse you didn’t know they had settings. You know everything now, though; you’re a real expert, and that’s why I’m following you. Our house (the house where we stay)(the house where we happen to be staying) looks smaller now. If I had to paint this, it’s all golden green grass at this hour, and a tasteful dot of red in the distance (it’s a classic farmhouse)(it’s red so the museum-goers know it’s something man-made and violent).
And you tell me that it’s fine. That you held a long piece of grass up to the cow’s electric fence earlier and it barely hurt, like it didn’t even hurt that bad.
And I believe you. Because what else is there for me to do?
And the sun has set more now and you’re only cast more in gold, you don’t even need to try to convince me. You’re all I know how to listen to. You’re a beacon of light, all blonde and sunwashed and I have to assume you’re saving me from something I just don’t know about yet, that you know better than I do.
And when you turn the cattle prod on and the hum of electric energy begins I swear I see you start to float.
And it’s the lowest setting, you promise me that, we can start slow. Anything to make me feel safe. You say that to me and I nod, yes, I do feel safe, yes, you’re telling me that. I wonder why I have to be the one to test it when this was your idea, but you say that because it was your idea it’s only fair. That makes sense to me, mostly. I close my eyes and put out my hands. You tell me to get down in case something bad happens and I do. This makes sense to me, I think. I kneel in front of you, palms open, asking for it. As if you’re about to knight me. I could be something good, too.
And there are calluses on my hands that would be perfect, thick skin to protect me.
And the world is still dark when you push the cattle prod into my left eye.
And the world remains dark for a while. Also wet, the world of my face is incredibly wet and I can’t tell why, because I don’t think I’m crying. I don’t think that’s it.
And the dark isn’t my choice anymore – the world of this world has fallen into night, as told by the crickets and the coolness and the way I can tell you’re not here and the way I can hear your scepter buzzing in the grass ahead of me. I lay on my back.
And
It is a perfect summer evening.
More about the author:
Rory O’Neill is a writer and artist originally from Los Angeles, currently based in Boston. Rory’s plays have been produced in the Boston Theatre Marathon and by local theatre companies, and can be found on New Play Exchange. She’s currently trying to write Hamlet.