Vain
by Giovanni Trovato
The parrot kept pecking at my eye sockets as the red glow of dusk faded.
The mirror didn’t lie. It showed my last moments honestly. The dying light of day. The merciless circle of shadows hanging over my head.
I didn’t scream. I couldn’t.
It’s beautiful, my wife said from the bed behind me.
Is this what you want? I asked. Soon I won’t be able to see you anymore.
She laughed, and the parrot imitated her. Two sharp sounds cutting through what was left of my hearing.
Then the bird went back to tearing my flesh.
Why are you laughing?
I’ve never felt your eyes on me, she said. Not once in twenty years of marriage.
Untie my hands, please.
If you’d bother to look at me, you’d see that mine are tied too, you idiot.
I can’t. I can’t look.
She chuckled.
I couldn’t turn my head. Even the mirror was crumbling into fragments. I imagined her lipstick spreading across her mouth, just like the wet wounds opening in my face.
Don’t you find me beautiful anymore?
The bird moved to my nose. Its wings spread wide. In my haze they looked like two welcoming arms.
I smiled, my lips tearing apart.
Why are you smiling? my wife asked.
I feel the warmth. It’s not my blood. It’s his. He wants me with him.
Look at me, you idiot. Look at me. She screamed and writhed on the bed.
I can’t. My eyes are gone.
When the bird tore away my tongue, I leaned back in the chair with my face toward the sky. Hot blood streamed down my neck.
It was dark, but I could see them. The eyes of infinity. No sunset beyond that sky.
I saw myself as a child, running. She and I, along the river.
I’ve never seen more beautiful eyes than yours, I said.
Do you mean it?
I do.
I think it will change, she said. Why are yours empty?
My eyes?
The reflection on the water blinded me. I didn’t scream. I couldn’t. She was gone, but her voice still lingered.
Can you hear it? She asked.
What?
It sounds like wings.
I stared into her empty orbits, as the parrot pecked against her skull.
Twenty years gone.
The Molotov Cocktail 