A Vulture's Burden

A short story by Caroline Honsel

Them, Crying by Rae Klein

I’ve grown use to the smell of rot. 

A hot breeze carries the marinating stench of decay through the trees that I perch within, reminding me of the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. 

It’s been a week or so since my last meal, and the ripe, metallic tang boiling in the summer’s heat makes it easy to find my next. Though I would have preferred something a bit fresher, this should suffice.

It didn’t take long before I found the source. You were lying on the side of the road. Your small body is contorted. One antler sticks out of your head, while only a stump remains of the other. Your front leg was bent inwards, and your forehead was nearly touching your spine. 

You’ve must have been dead for several hours, or so it smells. The sun scorched your skin to the asphalt and your stomach has begun to bloat. The blood from your head dripped down into your eyes. Bulging, red ones that looked at me as I approached your stiff body. 

I never understood why deer don’t close their eyes when they die. Why must you insist on seeing everything? I can’t imagine it does you any good.

My talons begin to tear at your body as if they have a mind of their own. Sinking into your skin, shredding layers of tender flesh, ripping away at viscera—this has all become routine. 

Shifting downwards, I nuzzle my featherless head into the opening I’ve created for myself. My beak slices through the meat of your body and your blood drips down my throat like warm honey. You taste like sweet ambition and carelessness.

With each chunk of you I swallow, a familiar sensation starts to weigh on my body. I imagine how a fledging would feel after leaving the nest far too early and flapping its arms far too late. It’s a heavy, tiresome feeling that seeps into my body regardless of what I consume. 

I pull my head out from you to look at the mess I’ve created. 

Your eyes were still open, glazed over and foggy. Blood has started to pool beneath you from the goreish cavity I left in your body. Your innards are on display for anyone to see. 

It should feel wrong to leave you in such a state, but I don’t particularly care.
Flies begin to circle your corpse, and the local crows have started to show their interest in my leftovers. I ruffle my feathers and pull myself away from your corpse, allowing the others to indulge in their fill. 

Despite the pressure in my body, I beat my wings. They take me far away from your corpse, but you remain with me. It’s taxing. I’ve started to believe that one day I won’t be able to lift my wings above my head. 

My body is cumbered by the weight of life, and I fear one day it will be the death of me. 

And yet, I must eat.

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Caroline Honsel (she/her) is a queer woman who has a passion for literature; she writes to resist. You can find more of her @rolypolyreads on Instagram.

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