The chickens had become Amy’s only friends.

 

Her siblings had been and gone just as Christmas had been and gone, leaving her behind like the unwanted Quality Streets. Now was the promise of an empty new year with nothing to do. Amy tended to have nothing to do. She often filled her day with waiting. Waiting for night to start and day to end.  Everyone she knew had something to do. They had important things to do; projects that gave their life purpose. There was purpose behind them waking up and small things like taking a shower was a quick, countless action, not the main event of every day.  But not for Amy. For Amy, every day was a blank canvas and worm digging would be her paint to fill it.

 

It was the early hours of the morning when Amy discovered this project. She was up to let her father’s four chickens out their run when she stood and studied them kicking up soil to get to the worms. With no real explanation as to why, Amy took the small gardening trowel she conveniently kept in her dressing gown pocket and started digging holes. The chickens huddled around her chirping in envy at this efficient man made tool. It would dig faster and deeper than all their wimpy chicken feet combined. And then, just as they were collectively pondering the Lord’s intention of poorly designed claws in a world which naturally selects the fittest species, a little worm poked its head out. Perhaps the worm was waking up to have a stretch or perhaps it was checking the weather but either way, it was gobbled instantly with the chickens ripping its body to shreds. The chickens looked up at Amy, slightly tilting their rubber heads in anticipation. Amy stared back at them, realising she got a real kick out of hunting and killing vulnerable animals so that is what she did for the next eight years. She just sat, digging up worms.  

 

For these eight slow years Amy’s father watched his demented child dig up the garden he once prided himself on. From the safety of the kitchen window, he stared out like a one-way mirror at a mental asylum. His daughter ravaged through the daffodil patch and ripped up the grass. Spring bulbs bounced off the back door with a thud while flower beds launched across the yard like rubble in a shell explosion. Obsessively searching, always, for worms.

 

Panicked spiders also became victims. They were bonked on the head with a blunt stick then fed to the birds. The chickens occasionally tormented them, plucking off each leg, kicking them around like a flat football. Inside, Amy’s father closed the curtains; succumbing to a life of darkness. 

 

Amy’s mum had left him due to the perpetual mud being dragged through the house. The hoover had packed in, just like her patience and when she walked out, she promised herself she’d find better things.

 

To an outsider Amy’s actions might seem a bit off, even genocidal. But Amy had gone through a similar phase before, one that involved drowning garden ants. She would entice them into an empty TicTac container, attractively filled with what one assumes ants eat; dandelions, mud and other squashed ants. Once a few ants were comfortably inside they’d have a good look around, check out their new home and decide where to move the giant leaves. This was Amy’s cue. Drip by drip she slowly filled the TicTac container with kitchen sink water. An eruption of liquid destruction fell on these ants, an equivalent to an ant tsunami, submerging their new home. The family of ants would madly crawl up the side of the TicTac container, hoping to make it to the rectangular exit before it was clicked shut.

 

*Click*

 

They were trapped.

 

Now completely panicked, they’d climb on the ceiling of their imprisoned home, hanging upside down as the container rapidly filled. Some fell; some clung onto others, dragging them down too. At this time Amy liked to give into the light-hearted slogan “Shake your TicTacs” and violently thump the plastic container back and forth until all ants were submerged and eerily floating.

 

When Amy’s father loving asked what sweets she’d like from the corner shop, she’d reply, “TicTac’s”, and he’d feel his body fill with dread.

 

This worm obsession was different however. In her eyes it wasn’t aimless torture; it was to benefit the chickens. Amy saw it as taking evolution into her own hands and the chickens welcomed the free supper. But really, for Amy it all amounted to the fact that she now had something to do. She was busy. Arguably the busiest out of everyone she knew. She had a reason to get up in the morning, a project where the now obese chickens depended on her. And she’d think of the onlookers who would forever be seeking a purpose at their arduous jobs, and she’d think of her father who hadn't quite figured out life yet. And she would laugh. For her, she knew this was it, and she pitied those forever searching for more.

 

Hashtag worm digging.

 

The End.