Martes, Hunyo 25, 2013

the story of a poor chicken

i’m depressed and i’ve been very emotionally unstable recently. i really can’t trace the root of my sadness but as far as i could remember it  already have caused me to deactivate my facebook, delayed my project deadlines, always came to work late, and staring at the vastness of an empty thought.
…and these all started with a chicken.
my brother got me a chicken, well, he didn’t actually gave me the chicken but the circumstance can justify that it was, in a way, had become my own if i may presume that’s the case. i didn’t really owned it i was just the surrogate mother of the chicken. i wasn’t even aware that there was a chic tied somewhere in our yard. as i went out the dining room one morning to feed the cats something just jolted, freaked out, and jumped towards nearly quaking me. and i realized that there a chicken it was—oh mom! i didn’t know we got chicken in here!
my brother would always skip its feeding sked, i would know because every time i go feeding the cats the chic would pull itself from the tie eagerly advancing instinctively trying to feed together with the felines. its feeding bowl’s  empty and clean like i saw it the last time so i would know that it wasn’t fed. from the cats, came another irritating responsibility of feeding another beast which went almost every day..
until i got close to it. and the chic got so familiar with me we became instant friends.
i already have an idea why there would be one in our yard, my niece’s 2nd birthday was nearing. we have this sort of a folkloric or tradition/superstition/custom (or whatever!) where they would kill a chicken as an offering and the blood then shall be marked on the forehead of the birthday celebrant. i am not really agreeable to this tradition because it’s fuckin’ freaky and i always freaked out as a child every time they put chicken blood on my forehead. it’s purely superstition and i personally think it’s daft and ridiculous!
every time the chic will hear my nearing footsteps the time i came to feed her she would jump out from the corner freaking out excitedly as if so happy i remembered her feeding time. the chic was by the way, a she. that was the usual scene during bender-feeding-the-chicken time. i didn’t know i would get attached to it that soon.
but then as the cliché goes: all good things must come to an end, and the end was when my niece’s birthday came.. so we know what happened. that evening everybody in the family were enjoying the tinola but i didn’t bother getting any of it. i even hate just the smell of it! i ate everything that night but the tinola. fuck that tinola, they fuckin killed my chic and i was so angry.
bok! bok! bok! i remember her sound as she would hungrily excitedly pull herself towards me to feed on the daily morning ration of pollard or grain, but this morning was not the same because the  freak’s gone. and it made me sad knowing she somehow, made me miss our usual morning bonding.

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