Michelle's Duck

Youth groups are experts at getting teenagers into God. When you're 15, what better way to spend a friday night than being felt up in the back of a youth group minibus and having slurpee drinking, jam donut eating competitions. Combine a sugar rush, teenage hormones and a small religious sermon to finish off the night, and a bunch of rowdy teens leave the group feeling mighty high on his holy light. One night, my friend spilt jam from her donut on the sleeve of her jumper and was convinced it was stigmata sign from the big man upstairs. So at 15 my impressionable mind decided to become fully fledged born again christian.

Michelle was one of the Youth leaders, she was 25, alternative, relatable and added massive street cred to loving jesus. She had dyed pink pieces in her dreadlock hair, and snorted when she laughed. One night she picked my friend and I up in her little blue hatchback, for a bible studies group. As we pulled out onto the main drag, she sped up fast, swerving wildly all over the road, as we clutched at our seats in the back. She laughed hysterically throwing her head back, turning around to flash us a mad look..

“SO DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD!!!??” she screamed – before screeching the car to a stunning halt. We all sat in silence before she continued on driving as if nothing had happened. God or no god, life was never boring with Michelle around, she was something else. She was mad with faith and high on life, it was contagious.

Of course being a fickle teenager, after 6 months or so, the fad of christianity petered out and we lost contact with Michelle, I saw her once on Sam Newman’s street talk – jabbering on about something – the distinctive snort in her laugh still there. Then a couple of years later we met her in a shopping centre, we exchanged hellos and hugs before she presented her hang bag and opened it up, motioning for us to look inside and meet her new friend. There inside was a tiny baby duck, the soft yellow of its downy feathers, its small pink beak, cheeping away on a bed of tissues. She told us she loved the duck so much she could not think to leave him at home, so she made a bed for him in her bag to be with him always, safe and held amongst her wallet and lipstick. She kept her bag closed and we walked through the shopping centre chatting away, opening her bag upon request now and then to check on him. As the hour passed the ducks cheeps seemed to be getting less frequent, I didn’t dare to ask her how long she had had him in there before we met, but suggested we get him to some water for a drink. We stole away into the toilets next to Mcdonalds and she gently lifted the duck onto the basin. Michelle meticulously fill the sink with water, cupped her hands and tried to get him to drink, His cheeping was getting fainter and he seemed to be gasping for air now. Panic started to rise, My friend and I watched in horror for the next ten minutes, as Michelle became more frantic and desperate to get the duck to drink, as it became weaker and less responsive, it's cheeps barely audibly now. After some time, the duck stopped breathing, she held it, limp and motionless in her hands and cried, tears streaming down her face she looked to us for some consol. Like a baby, howling, "God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Oh my God! " as she patted its still, soft body. She had loved the little thing so much, she had loved it to death. We buried it in my friends garden that afternoon, and said a little prayer.