#cowuntenance

[banisheed]

TIMING: May 1st, 2024 LOCATION: Ireland PARTIES: Siobhan (@banisheed) & Metzli (@muertarte) CONTENT: Domestic Abuse (child abuse discussion) tw, Animal Abuse tw SUMMARY: Siobhan and Metzli have a strange encownter.

Being kicked out of Saol Eile didn’t hurt so much the third time, Siobhan thought. Perhaps it was something about third times being charming, or what have you. Or perhaps it was that this time, she had chosen it. Regardless, she didn’t fancy being in Ireland for much longer and she had a million gratitudes and apologies to give Metzli, Anita and Xóchitl; nothing had gone the way she thought it would. Siobhan hadn’t talked about what happened, or what was happening; how does one explain that an idea of a life has died and will never come back? She was as lost as anyone else. All she needed to do was take some things from the shack and then it was done, it was over, they could all go back to Wicked’s Rest—it wasn’t home, she could never call it home, but it was the place she would rather be. Not that she’d started packing yet, but… but…

There was a cow. That was, in fact, exactly what she said to Metzli: “There’s a cow.” Its red and white hair was painted with mud, and it stuck its large head into the rusted trough that was bolted to the side of the shack. Siobhan frowned; that thing had collected rain water over the years, but it was far from clean. The water the cow so hungrily slurped wasn’t even clear. She thought she should help; Rónnait liked the animals she kept and Siobhan didn’t hate them, or caring for them, either. Her family were ranchers technically, though they would have screamed at the label. But she was still a banshee, despite her shame, and all she could really say was: “Metzli, there’s a cow here.” 

The colorful tag on the cow’s ear shook as the creature continued to drink up the dirty water. 

—

The departure from the banshees didn’t come lightly, and had it not been for Siobhan’s strength, it likely wouldn’t have happened at all. That time spent outside of that dreadful place had been quiet for the vampire. All Metzli could do was listen and watch, take any precaution they could to prepare for an outburst. Whether sad or angry. Or both. Yeah, probably both. That was what Metzli expected anyway, and as they continued to watch and follow Siobhan, they were surprised to find peace in her eyes. It lay comfortably all over her, the way she had deserved all along. Metzli was honored to share that experience with her, and apparently a cow too.

“Yes, there is a cow.” They took an unnecessary breath, as they always did to keep their sensitive nerves settled. “We should get it clean water.” Taking a step toward the cow, Metzli stiffened at the way they were painted with flecks of mud as it shook its head free of some of the wet dirt. The sensation forced out a groan up their throat and they swallowed with a step. If they could get past the crawling ants under their skin, then everything would be fine. Some days, they really hated being able to feel again, but all it took was one look toward Siobhan, a person that made it worth it. The ants ended their march. 

“Is there a pond or stream we can lead it to?”

—

“Or we could…” Siobhan waved her hand around in the air, running through ideas in her head. She settled on what she usually did: “Kill it.” She grinned as though the cow could understand her. “Eat it. Chop it up. You get the blood, Anita can have the meat, I get the bones, Xóchitl can watch.” The cow lifted its head up, water dripped down its brown nose, getting caught in the fur around its chin. She watched the water collect in the fur, and then drip down, and was struck with the sudden desire to dry its mouth. The creature stared at them with its big, mucus-crusted black eye and again, Siobhan was struck with a need to clean it. Everything about the creature was pitiable; cattle always were. Was there any other creature so thoroughly domesticated? So completely incapable of living without human interface? Or one that wore its uses so plainly, that could not be anything more than it was? Each cut of a cattle’s meat had a name, didn’t it? That hair, though muddy, would make fine boots. And if the cow was producing milk, the excess of it wasn’t meant for a calf. Everything this creature had to give was for someone else. There was nothing more pathetic than this thing staring at her. 

(Did it ever look at itself and think that maybe it should just—)

“There’s a stream nearby. We used to fill the water for the livestock from there.” Though this shack was far from the dairy farm that comprised the Dolan estate in Saol Eile, the few animals once here lived well, so Siobhan thought. If you were alive, that was living well—what else did lesser creatures need? Siobhan ripped in old rope from the broken pasture fence and tied up a simple noose. “Your family owned a farm too, didn’t they?” Siobhan asked absently, slipping the noose around the cow’s head, who didn’t protest or jerk away. Obviously, if the tag in its ear was any indication, the cow was used to human contact. She could’ve led it anywhere; didn’t it have any sense to be cynical? “Come on, I’ll lead the way; at least, if we’re going to eat it, it should have some clean water.” 

—

Killing the cow would indeed be a kind gesture to its cycle. Whatever direction its owner was taking, the cow’s place at the end of its road would be on a plate. Metzli had seen that cycle countless times, in a place where they had both arms for working, and land to tend to. Blood, as it seemed, had always stained their hands, and now there was only one to paint. “Yes, we had a farm.” A beat, and a huff from the steer as Siobhan beckoned it to walk. Metzli followed her closely. “There were many animals and crops. My cousins were helpers like me, but I was oldest so they would give me much more work.” 

Back in those days, where the air was fresh and the streets were full, survival had a completely different meaning. It meant waking up before the sun circled back around, before a rooster could screech as an alarm. It meant lugging around food for animals and trimming ripe vegetables from their roots. It meant the blood on Metzli’s hands wasn’t human, and it never mixed with dust. But those days were long gone, and in Metzli’s place, stood an abomination that understood all too well that a dead heart hurt just as much as a beating one. 

Because despite what people may say about Siobhan or think about her for doing the things she had, Metzli understood. More than once, they too had to rip limbs away for the sake of family. For the sake of keeping order and peace among the clan. But there was no peace, and there was no safety in the bond that was supposed to be sacred. Far more sacred than those, Siobhan’s ties were born of blood and not a bite, and yet…and yet she stood next to an abomination, with no tethers of blood surrounding her with the same warmth that trailed through her veins. It was wrong, and it was heartbreaking, but luckily for them, hearts couldn’t truly break. They could only bend.

“Sometimes I miss that farm, but I cannot go back. I am not even sure if anyone in my family survived the attack from when I was turned.”

—

There was something about the definitiveness, the straightforwardness, the inexplicable knife-to-the-chest sentiment that amused Siobhan about the sentence: “Yes, we had a farm”. Of course, everything Metzli said was rather blunt; ‘Yes, we had a farm’ was no more different than the accompanying ‘there were many animals and crops’. They were just statements, and Siobhan’s invention of subtext was an exercise in creativity more than intuition. There was nothing there and yet the sentence echoed like a handful of nails spilled across a table: rattling, rolling, scratching and bouncing. Yes, we had a farm. As the shack turned into nothing but the brown point of a roof on the horizon: yes, we had a farm. As her gaze turned to the trees far beyond, and the mockingly silent entrance to Saol Eile hidden among them: yes, we had a farm. Yes, Siobhan had grown up on one. Yes, we had a farm. 

The truth could be a simple affair—yes, we had a farm—and yet how much truth lived inside simple words was variable. Siobhan tried to imagine the farm Metzli spoke of, with its animals and crops and cousins. She tried to think of the place that Metzli couldn’t return to but only thought of the one she couldn’t. She held only one idea of a farm. Yes, we had a—with pastures that all sloped downwards and miserable animals with Death caught in their fur. And the cows! Siobhan could never forget them. Where the sheep pooled together on one end of their enclosure, and the goats shrieked until their last breaths, the cows greeted their butchers. To Siobhan, they seemed to have a docility that was bred. They seemed to understand their purpose. Yes, we had a farm and it was a home, once, full of gray, dead animals. 

She heard the stream first, then saw its lazy trickling stream and led the cow to it. It was her imagination that the creature seemed grateful as it drank. “Only sometimes? You don’t dream of going home?” Siobhan asked. “If you could have your farm again—or rather, maybe those days again. Before…everything. Would you? Would you go back?” Did Metzli long for it the way she did? Siobhan leaned down, flicking a finger at the cow’s yellow ear tag. “Do you think the cow wants to go back?” 

—

Home. It could be any place, but more often than not, it was a collection of people that provided love and safety and understanding. People like that were what made a home a home, and if Metzli really thought about it, their childhood had none. They stopped walking, wringing their fingers against themselves as they struggled to answer Siobhan’s question. It should’ve been easy. Instinctual, even. Because Metzli did miss certain parts, but they struggled to believe that any of it was worth missing. 

There was no home. There was no family. There was no love. There were only memories of safety in solitude and hatred stinging their skin. But the more Metzli thought about it, the harder it was to cement their desires onto their tongue. Instead, for several beats, they streamed down their cheeks until they managed to let out what sounded like a pitiful croak. 

“N-no.” Their shoulders sank, and they avoided any chance at eye contact by forcing their gaze to remain on the cow as it drank. “Not…It was-I…” Swallowing harshly, Metzli counted to six, pacing along with each number and repeating the process until they calmed down enough to speak. Properly that time, albeit with a few tears. 

“That was not home. That is just where I was raised.” Their breath stuttered out of their useless lungs, “I have many wishes that it was a home, but it was not. Be-because home is where you are happy. Home is where people are happy to see you. Home is-is where you want to be when you are not happy.” Passion grew in their chest, blooming into a small smile that shone beyond the tears down Metzli’s face. “Home is-is Leila and Fluffy, and-and Anita and Xóchitl, and Cass!” They lit up considerably, “And you. Home is you. When-when…when I think of my past, it hurts. Tingles are on my skin and it itches, and then I feel this-this…” A beat, and then Metzli rubbed at their half limb to settle the rising tension in nerves. “Heavy thing in my stomach.” They sniffled, finally looking at Siobhan. “I was not loved. I was not wanted. You call me abomination because I am dead, but I was called this before because…because I was alive.” Metzli breathed, watching Siobhan mess with the yellow tag. “I think the cow wants to be free to choose where to call home and that is okay. Sometimes…sometimes home is not where we think it is.”

—

An apology crystallized in Siobhan’s throat, bobbing as she swallowed useless words away. Siobhan wanted to ask what the difference between the place you were raised and a home was—Ireland, with all its edges, was her home—but the question withered away. She’d overwhelmed Metzli with her question and that was the enough to change her tone and pivot her curiosities. She stood slowly, her hand flexing at her side. “Home is back in Wicked’s Rest, isn’t it?” For them, but not for her. This was home; the cocoon shed her, but the lost shards would always be home. Her gaze lifted to the brown point on the horizon then back on her friend. 

Siobhan, knowing that Metzli had never hesitated to offer her comfort, shifted nervously on her feet. She remained where she stood, by the flowing stream. Her voice transformed into an oddity of kindness; something like her great-great-grandmother’s. “Home is where you’re loved and you are loved, now. And you’re loved in Wicked’s Rest and that’s home.” Siobhan repeated Metzli’s sentiments hoping there was some comfort for them in their version of truth. She considered her disagreement suddenly irrelevant. “We don’t have to think about your past anymore, if it burns; if it makes you heavy. I think your future is more fun, isn’t it?” But it wasn’t the same for her and it didn’t matter: loved or not, wanted or not, this was home. She could be a stray if she wanted, a little runaway from the beef ranch, but her reality wouldn’t bend. 

Then, there was the matter of the cow. Siobhan thought she understood the metaphor (Metzli was making a metaphor, weren’t they?) but she couldn’t pretend like she agreed, or that she understood, or keep herself from the question. The simple creature continued to lap up the water. “It can’t choose,” she said, arguing as softly as she could manage. She offered her friend a gentle expression, betraying the comfort and kindness she hoped to offer. “It’s a…cow. It can’t just…it doesn’t know better. It can’t live in the wild. It can’t just…exist. It wasn’t made to live. Not the way you’re describing.” Metzli must know; they grew up on a farm. There was a singular purpose. A unifying duty. “It’s a cow.” 

—

Without a word, they nodded, keeping the silence as Siobhan struggled to keep her illusion from completely falling apart. Things were easier to understand when there wasn’t fluff in what people were saying. Little meanings here and there that were thrown in for their sentiment, but most of the time, Metzli felt like it was for their confusion. However, now that they had the experience to decipher what was being said, they realized how important fluff could be sometimes. Words without the sharp edges. Words softened to allow for comfort to follow. Words that were too full of emotion to freely walk off one's tongue, but fell when they needed to. Into the arms (or arm) of someone who could carry them. Metzli lifted without hesitation.

“It can choose.” They affirmed, closing the distance between them and Siobhan. “Cows can be stubborn and bold, or shy and quiet, or controlling and rude.” Something akin to a snort came out of them as they thought back to one of their favorite dairy cows, Chicha. She was one of the best, and having been just a child when she was born, Metzli grew fond of her as they grew together. “One time, we lose a cow. Chicha. She was much annoying and always want to be out of the fence.” They breathed out a small chuckle. 

“Wake up and went to work, and she was not there. We lose her for two weeks. Think she was dead after one week.” Clicking their tongue, Metzli patted the back of the cow’s head and trailed their gaze back to Siobhan, offering a knowing and amused look. “She come back with this confident walk. Like nothing happen. My apá was so angry and wanted me to kill her for meat, but I know this is stupid choice so I just clean her up.” Their face fell at the memory, and they clicked their tongue again. “Our brand was messed up on her back. Some other farm try to put theirs on top and then I see she had cuts and fur missing, and I was so mad, but she was home, and she look very happy because she find this way to come back home where she will be treated good.”

Metzli wasn’t sure if Siobhan would find any comfort in the story, or see what they were trying to say, but they were sure that she didn’t really have to at that moment. Her wounds were still fresh and her heart needed time to repurpose itself. It was a good thing her and Metzli had enough of it to spare. “It will be okay, cariña.” They looked down to their friend, bending at the waist to connect their head to hers in a gentle bonk. “You are not a cow that was made to be certain way. You are…” Metzli pulled back, tears in their eyes with a smile reserved for so few to see. “Free and loved. You are my friend. You are my home. And,” They stood upright, holding their arm open for an embrace should Siobhan want it. “Now you have a new future. What do you want to do next since you are not a cow?”

—

Siobhan knew what Metzli was trying to do. It was thoughtful, it was kind, it was them tapping on frosted glass. What Siobhan wanted was to go home: she wanted her wings, her family, her dusty cramped room full of worn bones. What she could have was this: some kind words which dripped off her skin like rain. All of it left an uncomfortable residue. Siobhan thought she was worse than Chica; if she walked to Saol Eile with her scarred back, there wouldn’t be someone willing to take her in. She didn’t do well with choice, and yet, it spread before her like the dark branches of a blossoming sapling. She could do just about anything, and that was the problem. 

She could invite people to Ireland; she could let a leprechaun go; she could lead a cow to a stream and in fact, she’d done all those things. She could help someone she hated; she’d helped Regan escape, she’d spared the doctor’s wings from a full removal. And why? She was always contradicting herself, and why? What great purpose did being so confused serve her? Siobhan was too many things—an abundance of metaphors: she could call herself a garden, a library, a forest, a graveyard. Complexity didn’t interest her nor did it soothe the reality of being stuck with herself: squirming, writhing, pitiful. She needed to pin a more suitable Siobhan to the board (not by the wings, of course, she didn’t have those anymore). 

Falling into a different Siobhan was like wearing an old set of clothes; she’d been so many versions of the same, strange meandering woman for so long that slipping into another facet was a secondary nature—her primary nature being completely unknown to her. This Siobhan smiled softly, nodding at the love that Metzli offered, and imagined herself throwing it over her shoulder. She stood up. “What if I want to be a cow?” She did not want to be a cow. “What if it doesn’t matter? What if nothing does? What if I don’t want to be your friend?” She wanted to be Metzli’s friend. 

Siobhan pulled one of several knives from her pockets. With the flick of her wrist, she jammed the knife into the thick of the cow’s neck. She twisted, opening up the whining creature like a faucet. She pulled her hand away, covered in slick, burning blood, and smiled. This Siobhan didn’t think about how a different Siobhan really loved cows. This Siobhan didn’t do much thinking at all; it made her uncomfortable. As did being loved (as did being unloved). As did trying to figure out what she wanted (as did disobeying her whims). As did doing anything that was expected of her (as did doing anything she oughtn’t). She could stab a cow if she wanted—not that she wanted to—and she could do things that she didn’t want to—just because—and she wasn’t making any choices because choices made her uncomfortable—ignoring all the choices she was actively making and had made—and she could do it all because…. Because…

“Freedom makes me itchy,” Siobhan said with a shrug. “As does iron.” She scratched at her bloody hand. “So do artichokes; do you think I might be allergic?”

—

“We can see what matters and you can decide not to be my friend if you want. It is what you get to do. You are—” And then there was a knife in the cow, a bloody smile spreading across its throat. 

Hunger wound around Metzli’s throat so tightly that they wretched. Their eyes went red and glossy, body tensing as control barely managed to set itself in place. Killing the cow wasn’t exactly what Metzli had in mind for Siobhan’s newfound freedom, but they supposed metaphors were open to interpretation. They grumbled to themself and fought through the animalistic urge to bite, their face twisting with discomfort. 

The miscommunication was why they preferred plain speech. It’s what they probably should’ve stuck to, they thought. But Metzli figured Siobhan would’ve used her freedom to kill anyway. She couldn’t resist a good knife and some blood. Not as well as she could resist what was good for her. 

“Maybe.” They finally responded in a choke, clearing their throat soon after. “It will be strange allergy to have.” Which was not what she meant was it? They told her about their itch, so was it the same as theirs? Was she experiencing a level of discomfort that made living all too much? If she was, they could already tell speaking about it in depth was out of the question. They responded in kind, granting her silent wish. With a swallow, Metzli approached the now lifeless cow. “Will we take it home for food? I can prepare this and we can have meal together.”

—

Metzli was more tolerant than Siobhan hoped for—had she been hoping for something? No, of course she wasn’t. This Siobhan didn’t hope because hoping was pathetic and nothing she hoped for ever came to be anyway. She was flowing from one whim into the other; one dead cow into the next inevitable dead cow. Chaos incarnate, or something like it, right? (Her mind was strangely empty, no agreement echoed back through its hollow caverns.) Performing for an unresponsive audience really stabbed the life out of her metaphorical cow; in the realm of reality, the literal cow that had the life stabbed out of it flopped over as if taking a deep nap. 

What she’d imagined—which was different than hoping—was that Metzli would lunge across the space between them and sink their fangs into the cow. Or, perhaps, press their lips to the spurting wound. Instead, they stood there. Instead, they offered her more kindness that she didn’t know where to put. Siobhan frowned. “Stop being nice; this is weird. Is this what it’s like to have a friend?” Why hadn’t Metzli moved? Why had they retrained themself? Why did they offer to make a meal out of their bloody metaphor? She scratched her red hand, which was sprouting a new rash. “I think I might be allergic to friendship too.” She didn’t like this. “You’re no fun.” Her frown transformed into a childish pout. This Siobhan who wanted to play games learned quickly that Metzli was immune to them.   

She rounded the cow and lifted its big, dumb, dead, stupid head. “I don’t eat meat,” Siobhan said, “which I know is ironic considering…” Considering all of her; which she hated to admit was a tolling bell of irony. “But I’m sure Anita and…” Siobhan paused. “...Xóchitl would like a fresh meal.” And why did it matter to her what those two would like? Did it matter why it mattered? She was so tired of fighting her brain’s logic that she’d just have to let this one battle go. Waving a white flag, she smiled softly. “Help me drag this damn thing back. Or carry it yourself and I can pretend like I helped. I’ve got gloves if you need them.” 

Siobhan glanced up at the horizon, and the brown pointed roof of the shack. Her shoulders sank. For years she knew she’d convinced herself that she’d come a long way: from child to adolescent to woman to this. But it was always back there she went, back here she came: to Ireland, to Saol Eile, to her great-great-grandmother’s shack, to herself. Could a dog chasing its own tail forget where it was going? All she had to do was turn around and yet, and yet… And why? Why? She sighed; she wasn’t sure she even wanted to run another delusional lap. Maybe she’d start attributing her whiplashed thoughts to vertigo. Or, maybe, she’d find the right Siobhan to pin down and let her take over the laps. Or maybe she’d go back to the shack, watch Metzli cook a cow, and stop pretending like there was anything here that she cared to take back home. Yes, maybe, it was time to pack her suitcases. Maybe. Or maybe not yet. Who was going to tell her which choice was the right one?

“Hey, Metzli,” she said, “I love you; I don’t want to stop being your friend.” That, at least, she could be sure of.