When I first saw the sun, it was
Blocked by a policeman’s steely gaze.
Right then and there,
My destiny was realized for me.
I stumbled on tiny paws through the first weeks, nudged by
Gentle, calloused hands
Toward my training.
Those calloused hands led me
To great joy and great confusion.
While they fed me treats, they also
Pushed me through strange tunnels
And made me run across
Never-ending lawns of new, green grass that smelled like freedom,
but were interrupted by fences.
What was the goal?
The obstacles got more intense, more rigorous, more frightening,
But those hands led me through them,
Repeating steps with bottomless
Patience
Until I got it right. I was a smart one,
He said. A good boy.
I was taught
to withstand the BANG of a gunshot,
The writhing of strange men,
The taste of blood in my mouth.
I was taught to protect my friend at all costs.
I would die for him.
His hands smelled like
The contraption at his side,
The awful, loud thing that
I had to get used to. He also smelled like a child, of baby powder and
Cereal.
The tiny one
Was often unpredictable, either
Screaming,
Pulling my ears,
Or burbling the same nonsense my friend did, an odd language of malformed syllables and long phrases, all nonsense.
Whatever the tiny thing did, though,
My friend always held it in his arms and
In his heart.
The tiny one smelled an awful lot like him.
His shirts were often heavy with the scent of ash.
The female inhaled fire,
Flicking gray flakes into the wind.
I smelled his displeasure at the smoke,
But there was love beneath it,
Fire beneath the the ash.
I saw their embraces, relished
The gentle scratches she gave me
Around my ears, the bacon she
Snuck me. She was my second star
In the sky, always next to my friend and the tiny one.
I would do anything to make them shine.
He became my partner,
Working with me, feeding me, teaching me, and loving me
Unconditionally.
Even when I did something wrong,
He would always forgive me.
His metallic hands and burning shirts
Would run up against me as he
Took me into his arms. Bursts of happiness, haphazard and
Sensational,
Exploded in my head, and I would
Wriggle with joy.
I was his, and he was mine.
We were warriors, fighting together
And understanding one another.
As I grew, he grew.
Soon, we were riding around at top speed, chasing people
Who wanted to hurt my others.
I would run then down,
bring them to the ground before
They could hurt anyone.
Now, though…
I didn’t know where he was.
I hadn’t seen him since the last
Dark alleyway, the last gunshot.
I hadn’t seen him for a while.
I remembered chasing someone,
Yelling, so much yelling,
And my friend falling to the ground.
I smelled blood.
It smelled an awful lot like him.
He fell,
And I ran to lick his face.
He made such terrible noises.
I smelled awful, deep pain.
I frantically licked his face,
Trying to take it away.
It worked when he was sad.
Would it work now?
He stopped groaning, just long enough to laugh, to pet me.
Eyes sparkling, he hugged me close.
He went still, and the pain was gone.
I greeted his friends
With a wagging tail,
For he was okay. He was asleep.
For some reason, they too began to make unsettling noises,
Crying out in some broken emotion.
Why were they sad?
He was asleep.
I haven’t seen him since,
Now, I’m in a dry field.
The female smells awful,
Like she has a hole full of festering fruit in her chest. The fire in her is Toxic.
The tiny one is as confused as me.
Why are we in a field full of old stones and dry bones, surrounded by my friend’s friends?
I start to shift with anticipation, growing restless. Is he coming to meet us?
The air is thick with rot.
Crystalline droplets fall down
The female’s chin, and she is shaking.
She sees something, and she crumples to her knees.
The tiny one doesn’t understand,
So he too begins to cry. What is wrong with his mother? I am worried, for the rot inside her grows.
Before I can get to her,
I smell him. I jerk up, sniffing the wind.
He’s finally here!
I dash toward the smell, ignoring
The cries of the female,
And run toward him.
There he is!
There are men carrying a box,
Large men with weeping hearts.
Why is he in a box?
He is okay, right? He is a warrior,
Just like me.
His gentle hands raised me to be strong like him.
His love guided me to adulthood.
I need him. He is my life, my heart.
Why is he in a box?
Rouse High School
11
