The duck

I was living in a compound. The side of the compound that I was living in was sumptuous and well-appointed. The walls were made of rich mahogany, the carpets thick and rich. But there was an area of the compound into which we—there was a group of us living here—were not allowed. I had snuck into the area once and found an underground cellar containing secrets. It was below a sort of anteroom that had been constructed between our living space and the laboratory where those who watched us measured us and worked.

I wanted to show my friend what I had found, but we were caught in the anteroom. We pretended to be relaxed, as though we belonged there, leaning back comfortably on the plastic folding chairs. But my friend was apprehended. He was taken away and I was spared.

There was a brook just outside of our living space. A narrow, fast-moving little river with tall grass growing on either side and boulders suggesting its little turns. I held in my hands a special duck. This duck, which had the brilliant green and brown feathers of a mallard, was capable of diving beneath the surface of the water and catching fish. The duck was talented and very fast and nimble in the water. I coveted him, always carrying him with me as I walked around the compound.

He became fidgety, squirming in my hands. I realized that he was hungry, that if I didn’t feed him shortly he would die. The insistence of his movements proved to me he was starving, that he was scared of death.

As I rushed through the house, looking for something that I could feed him—and I felt that I was close—he began to bite me. He was desperately trying to eat my hands. I panicked and dashed his little head against the hard parquet floor in a corner of the library, killing him brutally and instantly.

I immediately felt sad and guilty. I knew I would have to tell somebody and I was afraid they would not believe me, that they would think I had planned the murder. There was one friend in particular I was afraid of telling, and when I found him I showed him evidence of the duck’s attack—a deep, bill-shaped bite mark, a chunk of hanging tissue in the meat of my left palm.