When the doctor came to ask why, Judy said, it was because of the ducks. She closed her eyes but their bodies were still there, wings flailing as they attempted to fly off the bitumen.
The doctor said, sign here, on the dotted line, so we can give you some blood.
Judy said, there was blood on the dotted line. Blood and shit and – grey stuff. She doesn’t have words for the dying-crying noises the ducks were making; their wing-beats, thickening the air like clotted cream; the hot scent of tar and blood and shit that has settled in her hindbrain and thrown her off balance ever since.
The doctor said, something else must be wrong. People don’t slit their wrists because some ducks got run over.
But they’re in here, Judy said, her hands fluttering around her head. They keep dying. I don’t know how to make it stop.