Cactus eater

Azalea Geist

        On the first day of this hike, New Kid’s feet hurt. I hear him whine; he should quiet down. My feet stung the whole time and cannot remember complaining. New Kid, he shuffles next to me. I don’t look. “What are you in for?” he asks. The sun looks at the sweat on my back. “I had violent thoughts,” he says, “I shouldn’t have told anyone… What are you in for?” “Pot,” I say.

We slog over the desert. I walk one foot ahead at a time. People forget how profound this is: you can’t step with the same foot twice. I don’t look up as New Kid trips and curses. The counselors don’t like that and yell shut up, so New Kid curses at them. I slog forward until the counselors tell us to stop so I stop. They tell us to look over so I look over.

New Kid looks younger than me, like thirteen. The kicks bombard his fragile body. He is crying as he becomes example, but I don’t care because tears are expensive. He is spoiled. The counselors grab New Kid and drag him away and make him go limp. New Kid’s arms are tied to a tree over an anthill. He looks like statues looking down towards me from the church Mom and I went to. New Kid is the worst martyr as he becomes lunatic. I hope Mom is well without me. The counselors tell us to keep moving so I keep moving; they resume our slog.

        I am cold and in love with dying tonight. I was told I did something wrong, which must be true, so they took my sleeping bag. I am in the dirt looking at stars, more here than at home. I can’t help but caress the past with blistered hands.

        I haven’t seen the moon since they took me. It was three in the morning, lights flashed as they tore the blanket off of me. They were arresting me for what I’d done, Dad told me. He looked to Mom who was sobbing apologies like This Is What Is Best For You. Her voice was long gone as we rode away. Cramped for days on the back of their Mustang, I wasted tears.

Kids were working the fields, now used for their rotting, back then. I was taken to the leader of our program, Cowboy Dan. He wore his cowboy hat and his clothes like carrion feeders, his blonde hair dyed brown. He smiled with his teeth at me and said, “Welcome to the rest, boy.”

I was forbidden to eat until the third night, when Cowboy Dan sat next to me and ate his cigarettes, chewing them bite by bite. We stared at the hall as everyone but us got sick. They vomited out sawdust or ripped each other apart. I sat in horror seeing their corpses being made. Cowboy Dan made his serious face at me and said, “Bless your heart but these are your drugs and brown, brown liquor. You killed them all.” He kicked me to my knees and I was too hungry not to eat so I ate. They tasted like wine from church.

It is true that time passed between then and now, the fields prove it. Counting makes you become lunatic, so I quit. The counselors must have a count somewhere, where they see me love hiking. Cowboy Dan’s lips yell at me over and over the words I cannot stop dreaming. Blow your horrible cigarette smoke inside me and call me ugly. I am fermenting in the moonlight, but I cannot see the moon.

        I wonder if I’m going to die out here. The cold tastes like dirt. Maybe Cowboy Dan is paying it minimum wage too. I let sleep take me and have no dreams in the desert, only breaks from the hike, our pilgrimage.

        We arrive at the cattle field. Stumbling in step with my breath, I grab the hoe for my task. It’s heavy and used to hands. I drag it over to the Others. Blankly we stare at each other, then they turn and push a cow over.

The cow stares up at me. Its eye says, “It is not their trail, make of that what you will.” I raise the hoe and gravity takes its course. Thunk. It’s not dead. Thunk. My arms get exhausted. Thunk. Thunk. The cow's head splatters over my running shoes. The heat is awful. A sip of water is rewarded to me for being awful. The others look at me with jealousy, but never offer to take my place.

We got to dragging the carcass to the Farm. The sun is still out so there are no breaks. I don’t look ahead because I’ve slogged this path before. Looking up means you go lunatic; I am not spoiled now. Cowboy Dan’s mouth is howling like God. I look up to see Cowboy Dan’s laugh focused off our path.

        Ants drowned New Kid while we were gone. They crawl across him, picking off his meat. Arms stretched across the branches like roadkill, eyes melted by the sun, and less skinny than I am. There isn’t enough blood visible for this stench. Another rock hits New Kid and Cowboy Dan’s tongue cackles at the cairn forming. New Kid’s mouth makes eye contact with me and the ants inside say, “And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus: and when I saw her, I wondered with great admiration.” I become lunatic and collapse.

When you rest on the hike you are given a minute, then they kill you. I am in love with dying and count the seconds on the desert floor. I hear Cowboy Dan’s spurs perambulate, and I hope he’s ready to go home and ends me quick.

* * *

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        Cowboy Dan takes off his mountain lion skin and stares at me in nothing but his spurs. He slowly approaches me and grazes his fingers through my hair. I just brushed it, so my hair is finer than silk. His fingers make small curls. My insides feel tender as I stare into his eyes. Cowboy Dan’s mouth and tongue coordinate to say, “You have horse hair.”

My hand reaches for Cowboy Dan, but Cowboy Dan’s fingers grab my wrist. Cowboy Dan’s pupils survey me before repeating, “You have horse hair.”

“I don’t know what that means. Am I a problem? Can we be in love?” I say. Cowboy Dan’s repetitions continue and I start to cry out, but Cowboy Dan’s fingers invade my mouth. Diving deeper and deeper. Not curling, so they feel like horrible cigarettes in my mouth. All I can taste is Cowboy Dan’s ideas of companionship.

I am swallowing the barrel of a gun, but it’s not a gun. Lonely and twitching in a Utah cabin, fucked like everyone else, and I hope he’s ready to finish me off.

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* * *

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        I count forty-three thousand two hundred and fifteen seconds before I open my eyes. The stars look at me and spit the dirt out of my mouth. They left me here, but I am thirsty so I can’t be dead. I stumble off our path. The cold is guiding me somewhere; or, maybe it’s the air. Keep going is all I can afford, I must spoil myself with water.

In front of me is a cactus and I am starving. I rip off a pad. Spines to go deep into my hands tattooing lace. I pierce the pad with my teeth, pressing the spines against the roof of my mouth. They puncture easily, but it tastes tangy and the blood doesn’t ruin the palette. I name colors for the first time. There are things I will never remember again, but with each bite of the cactus I inch closer toward reverse-apotheosis.

Soon enough the pad is gone, so I press myself into the cactus. Spines pressing into my chest, arms and eyes. My canines break the stem and I suck out as much water as possible. The cactus shrivels in front of me, pulling out the spines from me. The sensation of prickling comforts me. I will never eat meat that isn't from a cactus again. With nothing left, I look and there is Coyote in front of me. He makes eye contact with both eyes. I am not afraid of him; he has done nothing to me.

        Coyote says, “I can taste you from here.” “Why don’t you eat me?” I say, and then he says, “Why don’t you. You have the teeth to do it.” And then I say, “I discovered cactus and found myself in love with the world.” Coyote advances towards me and I can taste me too. I say, “I have met a devil.” And Coyote says, “And you are willing to make a deal with another.”

And I say, “I don’t know, just want this to last longer.”

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The Coyote looks at me then trots away. Following him, my feet hurt less step by step. Bits of grass grow beneath my feet, an unfamiliar softness in the night. The mountains are carved into the sky just like the scars across my body. The needles I walk through carve into me, making me a lithograph.

Each cactus I walk past blooms flowers bulging with unripe fruit. I pick off another pad, the fruits are not ready. Finally, I see the moon again though not the phase. I will have to reintroduce myself to the phases. What a beautiful night!

        On the crest of the hill, I see the Farm. In my absence, they finished the barracks. Cowboy Dan’s trailer lights are still on, he must be strategizing his war late into the evening. I don’t look away as the Coyote’s children come down the slope around me, my mouth full of spines and laughter.

The counselors are torn apart, wasting their screams asking to be discharged. Nothing of them is left to rot. They should have stayed in the city, so I only feel bad for them while blinking. Once their bellies are full, coyotes crash into the barracks to eat the Others. No screams come from them and I don’t see them die. They’ve finally returned to me, I should go down and collect their bones once this flooding passes.

Cowboy Dan bursts from his trailer with his rifle in hand. He shoots into the sea, but the bullet stops existing as the Coyotes are upon him. Cowboy Dan’s hunting knife flails. He cuts at Coyote’s children, their blood spilling on top of his, but not mixing together. He looks up at me and says, “I should’ve left you with a gun.” Coyote’s children tear him apart, organs left to display and rot. Cowboy Dan is still screaming as I laugh into the rising sun, half-eaten cactus in my hand.