---

by Inuya D’Vorah Schultz

---

---

The roadkill was fresh enough that nothing had started to swarm it and there was this seagull on the roof of my car that kept asking me what was wrong. It could have been noon, but the sun was only suggested somewhere in the fog and that made me forget whether it was spring or fall. I thought it was November because it was never May when it was this kind of grey outside—but it was May and I know this because I never wear this coat in the fall. And it was loud out on the coast, though the waters weren’t rough the way you’d expect the waters to be rough out on the coast in grey weather. I’d been driving for a long time.

Over the guard rail, I took note of how far out the tide was. It was out. Like far out in a kind of is it coming back? kind of way. Far out in a way that only worries people who can’t be alone. And listen, I’m not saying that I’m that kind of person, but my heart was racing, had been racing…I couldn’t exactly figure out when it had started racing. So I took a few steps back from the railing like that might help it settle but thinking about it now…I’m not sure if my heart ever did steady itself or if I just got used to it. I think I got distracted though, ‘cause of all the seabirds down by the shore. They were screaming in a discordant and alarming way that made me want to plug my ears, like how you wanna plug your ears when you’re standing on a street corner and an ambulance wails by. In a way that reminds you that sound has the capacity to put your nervous system in a chokehold. In a way that leaves you with a sore neck and a headache from clenching your jaw. Anyway, yeah, the seabirds were scream-laughing like that and I looked at them rustling about and they kind of reminded me of drunk Hallmark women at a bachelorette party, desperate to show the world how they’re so young and so fun, and no, nothing’s wrong do I look like something’s wrong? Who told you I wasn’t sleeping? Cathy? That bitch—no, I’m fine, really. The birds were in that kind of state and so I assumed there must have been a lot of dead fish on the shore.

I turned around ‘cause of that seagull on the roof of my car. It was twitchy. It reminded me of an animation student’s first stop-motion project. I only realized that I had a headache when I looked at my blinking hazard lights. It asked me again—the seagull—what was wrong and I, again, ignored it ‘cause even though no one was around to see me and I didn’t believe in God, I still felt like it was an embarrassing thing, to talk to a bird. Then, I wondered why it was here, and not down at the seafood buffet. Maybe it had no friends because it was so fucking annoying—the seagull, I’m talking about.

For the first time since getting out of my car, I glanced down at the rabbit with entrails and bones so wet they seemed soapy. I hadn’t planned on stopping out here, but I’d been driving behind this Ford F150 for about an hour before a rabbit ran out into the middle of the road, before I yelled, before I saw the Ford bob over it—the rabbit. The Ford didn’t stop or stall or even slow down. In fact, I think it sped up. And so I had to stop because that was my understanding of roadkill etiquette. If you hit something, you have to stop. You have to pull over on the shoulder, you have to reverse until you’re back at the body you spatchcocked. You have to get out of the car and you have to look at what you’ve done.

Then you have to wait for a scavenger to come and get it.

Then, only then, you can leave.

So yeah, because the Ford didn’t stop, I had to. So I got out of my car and I waited and waited and waited. Like, ten minutes? Forty-five minutes? Time in this kind of weather is a little slippery. I was waiting for a scavenger, but I think I was also waiting for the Ford to come back. I don’t know why I thought it would.

So I walked up and down the eerie shoulder of the cliff, trying at times to define the horizon, though in this grey, the sea and sky were seamless. At this point my clothes and hair were wet—I’d noticed the fog but not the mist…is there a difference or is fog like an umbrella term that has mist under it or the other way around? Whatever. My hands were clammy and I kind of felt a little bit feverish—my shoulders were a little achy, my eyes were kind of tired…and the seagull on the roof of my car wouldn’t leave me alone. It kept going, “Hey, hey you—PST! Hey, up here! Hey lady!”

It had the eyes of an apologue character, and frankly, I just wasn’t in the mood, but it wouldn’t shut up. And so yeah, eventually, I replied, “Do you mind?”

And the seagull, with a thick rhotic accent, was all like, “What are you doing with the rabbit?”

And I was like, “Nothing, I’m just looking at it.”

And it was like, “Voyeurism or tourism?”

And I was like, “Uh, what?”

And it was like, “You a voyeur or you a tourist?”

I forgot that there were other things I could have been so I answered, “Tourist, I guess? Look, can I just process this, like, alone?”

And it said, “You’ve been here for a long time.”

And I said, “I’m waiting for something to come and eat it.”

And it said, “But there’s so much food in the sea today. Can’t you hear the screaming? No one’s gonna come get this.”

And I said, “That makes me feel bad.”

And it said, “Why?”

And I said, “‘Cause then it died for nothing.”

And it said, “That’s how it goes sometimes.”

And I said, “I can’t cope with that.”

And it said, “Why?”

And I said, “It makes me feel bad, like eternally bad.”

And it said, “Why’s this for you to feel bad about?”

And I stuttered and said, “Well, it’s not, really, I guess, but—”

And it interrupted me to say, “So if it’s not your fault, don’t feel bad.”

And I said, “Just because it’s not my fault that doesn’t mean the bad is not still in my chest rotting like a loose plum at the bottom of a fridge!”

And I couldn’t be sure, but I didn’t think that any of this was about the rabbit. Sure, it was why I pulled over and got out in the first place—I pulled over to stare at it and the fat tread mark that ran through its body. And I couldn’t stop staring at it now ‘cause that’s all I really could do…you know? I couldn’t remember what I thought I could do when I watched the Ford bob over it, I think I actually felt kind of helpless. But I pulled over ‘cause the driver didn’t. And ‘cause the truck driver didn’t I had to. ‘Cause when shit like this happens, someone has to pull over and get out and go wow, yeah, mhm, and then think about their own shit for a while. Then, I swore at the seagull and stuck my middle finger right in its dumb face and then I swore at the sea and began to cry and I cried as loud as I could ‘cause there was no one around and for all I knew my crying just made me sound like one of those seabirds down by the shore. And I’m not sure why, but it felt like the right thing to do, ‘cause what else could I have done on this cliff that smelled like dead fish and looked like November? I was alone with no one around me to say: “Dude, relax. That bird is just being a dick. Take as much time as you need with the rabbit.”

Anyways, sorry I’m late.