Roadkill

By Tegan Sullivan

It isn’t hard to get bones. Here is what you do:

Find the roadkill. Rain slicked down the side of my face like slime. It was early morning, the light on my dashboard read 5:45 AM. I was going to be late for work, but I didn’t go to work anymore. There was a mound of something on the side of the road, rotting flesh and curdled blood. She could almost fit into my hand entirely, sturdy and strong. I could feel bone beneath my fingers. Beneath the squish.

Wear gloves and put it into a box. I kept buying new shoes just for this. Sturdy, with padding and paper inside already. Heels, sandals, pumps, flats. New piles of big shoes next to little shoes. My husband just let me. Worked overtime to do it. Late into the night, early in the morning. I placed the head onto the tissue paper. Gently. Listened to the way it all crinkled.

Deflesh for quicker decomposition time. The rain made tinny sounds on the car. Sat in the back. Took tweezers and pulled off all the soft bits that would peel away. All in small strips. I thought of red and pink felt. I thought of children’s toys. My throat hurt. Wore gloves, throwing the bits of flesh out the back of the car and onto the ground. Whatever had it before can have it again. I wasn’t here for skin.

Wrap it in a plastic bag and go home. I went ninety miles per hour and prayed someone would pull me over. What do you have there? They’d ask. Who do you have there?  No one did. Big storm, all the cops out tucked up tight. Not there when I needed them. Bad things happen to good people. The bones fit nice inside of the box. Small teeth. Lost.

Wrap it in a mesh bag. I used to collect seashells as a girl. I liked the way they twisted and turned. I used to hold my ear up to every single one to see if I could hear the waves. I wanted to wander the beach shores with her. Big bag, small bag. Laughing. I wanted so much. A few weeks ago shells became bones. Held my ear up to every single one to see what secrets I could hear. What whispers they held, but they all came back silent. Empty.

Bury the skull in a container of dirt. Real dirt. Real dirt has maggots. Now wait. My hands were covered in dirt and some thick, black substance. I had bones in my ears, nice bird-skull earrings. They’re not scary. Bones. They’re just inside of you. I know what is scary. I know what is turning around. When something should be there is not there anymore. I know big crowds. My girl. Lost. All you have to do is pull bones out. Find them.

Let the maggots do their work. Her room was so nice and soft and pink. My husband came home every night and kissed me on the head. Don’t worry, he said. Don’t worry. They’ll find her. He was worried. Three days. It took three days for a person to become missing. In the right temperature and climate, a body can become bones in nine. Maggots and humidity and temperature. Wildlife. Animals, I think. They could tear a body to shreds, meat off of the bones, eyes off a daughter, head off of the body. Look away for just a moment, any animal can get your girl.

Wait. Two weeks before I saw the roadkill. Birds don’t take long to decompose. I didn’t know how long this new thing would take. I didn’t want to dig her up before she was done. Big, heavy rocks to deter scavengers. I buried her three feet deep that day. My husband was at work. Don’t worry, he said. They’ll find her. After three and a half weeks I dig her up when he’s at work. No skin.

Submerge in soap and water to degrease. She was slimy. I wore gloves again, as if I couldn’t stand to touch her. But I wanted to. A clear dish soap was the best choice. I didn’t want to dye the bones. The first soak she came back almost clear. I kept the container in her room. Big plastic tub in her closet, walk-in closet for a four-year-old. Four years old. Only three more weeks of this, and she was done.

Dry the bones slowly and out of the sun. I drew all the blinds in her room and kept her on a shelf. Should’ve kept her home. Busy street parade. So small. This shelf held her first curl and would have held her first tooth. I work one out gently and put it in there. It cracked a bit, and I kissed her forehead until she forgave me. So sorry. Every day I didn’t look away again. I pressed my fingers to her temples. Wet, wet, damp, dry. Flesh to bone for only a second. I didn’t do this for skin. Not for skin.

Second burial involves the rearranging of bones into what you want. Her skull was all I had, so I placed it on her pillow. My sweet girl. Tucked her up tight and sat next to her all day. All day. My husband came home and moved to me like clockwork. He came inside of the room and paused. A skull. Small teeth, one cracked and missing. Me. Me. Staring at me next to her. Bird-bone ears. He moved to sit next to me. He took my hand, skin against disgusting skin. Bones were under. All we had to do was find them. Dry sounds as our palms pressed together, and his lips kissed my temple. Found her, I said. He nodded against me. Leaned over, gave our daughter a kiss. He said: found her.

THE END

Author Bio: Tegan Sullivan is an undergraduate student pursuing her BA in Creative Writing at the University of Central Florida. She currently resides in Orlando, FL. She has upcoming work in the magazine Lotus-eater. She can be contacted through her email address, trsul111@gmail.com.