Vulture Children

Vulture Children

Mark Coleman

His voice is so gravelly. You’d think that he ate handfuls of sand. It developed early, when he was ruthlessly beaten by his father. Standing there, shaking on a paint can in the garage, as his father rummaged around for something to change it up. Ten years of heavy drinking, and dreams of going out to sea. Trade winds that carry the past far away.

She slept on a bus bench. Cried herself right to sleep. The john she was with last night had so brutally raped her that she can’t breath. She imagines that the blood that had stained the sheets must still be flooding her mouth. She used to pour over the illustrations in the children’s books and dream of being a princess. Now, she bites the door handle while cops do the thing that they do before they let her go.

Always stifling cries. Occasionally smashing everything in a motel room, and going off in cuffs. If only they didn’t take his belt away in county. Robbery went south, and the gun just seemed to go off by itself. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the judge knew him. He remembers playing soldiers. The barely perceptible little smile turns to laughter.

She’s gone when he gets back. He tries to wake her up, but can’t. God knows that he’s seen his share of dead bodies, but it never gets easier. Each one carries its own peculiar knife twist. He was going out to score. She was so junk sick, when he had left. The smell of sex dispels any uncertainty. He gently closes the door, and walks until his feet won’t carry him anymore. Stares up at the sky, wishing that he were there.

He always thought that widow’s peaks were ridiculous. But he couldn’t keep his hair from receding. His wife’s eyes shine with a different emotion than they used to. He’s noticed the glances at the barbeque that fuck and hold hands afterwards. He doesn’t let on. He just drafts his will, and paces with old public access romances playing beneath the handyman front.

Courage fails him. He keeps trying to jump. With how cold the water is, he’s surprised that his toe keeps breaking through the ice. Someone shoves him. The lifeguards are chatting among themselves, and he nearly drowns. When you’re that young, it’s easy to forget to make peace. Someone finally pulls him out, and he’s reborn at six.

He rereads what he wrote over his twelfth cigarette of the day. The bargain bin wine is too sweet, but it does the trick. The crickets didn’t retreat with the night. They’re still at it. There’s always white noise, after all. Even if everything else about the air is dead.