Painted Red

 “Counting your eggs before they hatch? Mrs. Henry, you are a very hopeful lady.” I teased as the hen warmed her possessions, comfortably in the coop. In a while, Michael would come and walk away with all the eggs in his basket. But Mrs. Henry would be counting chickens, at the drop of a hat.

“Your sarcasm is as sharp as your blade, must say Mr. Dagger! Don’t you cut my dreams, so ruthlessly!”

She doesn’t mind my killer words for this friendship had witnessed many grey seasons, collaboratively. Michael, who owned this farm, always took sufficient care to burnish me and nourish her. After all, we were his bread and butter, topped with eggs and meat. All the hens criticised me for I chopped off their chords with life. They loathed my appearance and feared my arrival.

 With Mrs. Henry and me, things were different. We sailed like breeze on the sea, one not intimidated by other’s presence; both proficient in our respective jobs –she laying in dozens and me slaughtering in millions. What we did, never creased our souls. Into the profession for eons, our forefathers (and foremothers!) too served on this farm. We welcomed each day as it came, with effervescent enthusiasm. When the killings got too much, Mrs. Henry pacified me.

“Mr. Dagger, don’t take it to your heart. Every stone is not meant for pelting, some make homes too. Likewise, you despise hunger.” Her clucking always calmed the sharp bouts of anger and disgust in me. 

The camaraderie was established, when once a bad tumour had infested her claws and the vet had used my honed skills to relieve her from the agony.

Of late, her feathers were losing their auburn lustre. Her beak fiddling with peddles than pecking on worms. Majorly, she loused as if drugged with opium. Michael too lamented, “Henry, my darling the egg numbers are dwindling and the income is diminishing. Don’t give up so early.”

Her misery troubled me, for she barely spoke. Then came a month, when she refused to lay a single egg! Once a golden hen, now was barren. The farm was abuzz with news of Michael wanting to sell her, before she turned into a dead mass. Something held him back from doing the unfathomable act.

One day, when clouds hovered in the sky and gusty winds obscured vision, Michael walked up to me.

“Come my faithful, today you have to prove your worth. In one cut you have to relive the bird of its suffering. Kill it!” His words stabbed me like one’s kin inflicting injuries. Before I could figure his intentions out, he had put me into action. Mrs. Henry looked at me with piteous eyes but her tone was calm. 

“Don’t hesitate my friend. Only blessed ones are put to rest by their best pals. End this ordeal, I too deserve your favour.”

With this Michael brought me down on her fragile neck. Not a wail escaped her pursed beak. Our love was painted unusually red.