I pushed the tiny box as far back into my dresser drawer as I could. It wasn’t so much that I was hiding it, as that I preferred not to see it. I have this terrible habit of keeping things out of sight. If I can’t see it or nobody else knows about it, it never happened; at least that’s what I tell myself.

A year ago, I was hiking in the Adirondacks on a crisp, cloud covered morning. It was late November and frosty mornings were the norm. You know, the kind of morning when you don’t want to get out of bed or take off your pajamas. It was early; very early. I keep this little notebook where I tell myself what I’ll do and how I’ll do it and who I’ll do it with; way too many imperatives. I planned that I’d go for a hike on that particular morning. The sun was just coming up behind the clouds, a breeze rustled the trees, and my hiking boots were one size too small. I wish I could say I was enjoying the hike when I happened upon it.

It’s still difficult for me to name it. It was sitting beside a fallen tree, covered in dirt and some other grimson colored goop. I crouched down and looked at it more closely. At first I was certain my eyes were playing tricks on me. I stood up, shook my head and started to walk away. They say you can’t unsee something once you’ve seen it. I stopped and looked back, hoping I’d look again and see a rock or a flower; anything other than what I thought I’d seen.

Human curiosity can produce an awfully foreboding feeling. I wanted to just keep going and let somebody else deal with it, but no, not that day. I walked back and looked down, focusing more closely on it this time. Yup, no denying it, what I was seeing was a blood covered human ear. It looked as if it had been chewed or torn off its owner’s head. All sorts of possibilities went through my mind as I looked around; a bear, a jealous lover, a prank? I hoped it was a prank; part of a costume.

I looked for a napkin or a piece of scrap paper, but I had nothing on me. I took off one of my socks, picked the ear up by its lobe and dropped it into my sock. Why did I do this? If I could tell you I would. I carried it out of the woods like it was contaminated.

When I got home, I thought about calling the police. The thought left my mind quickly; they’d ask all sorts of questions and I didn’t have the time or patience. So I put it in a box and tucked it away.

By the time dinner came, I’d pretty much forgotten about the ear in the box. After dinner I turned on the local news, poured myself a brandy and finally took a breath. Five minutes in, they announced that a hiker reported finding a thumb about a half mile from where I’d found the ear.

So now I’m concerned. An ear, a thumb, what’s next, a leg? I get really fidgety and I start pacing? What if somebody out there is hurt badly and they’re bleeding to death because I failed to call the police? What if it’s someone I know. I was certain that I waited too long. If I called the police now, they’d question me about why I waited and if there was a crime, I could be considered a suspect or an accomplice. I went to bed on pins and needles, riddled with guilt.

After a restless night, I tuned on the news first thing in the morning. The local news reported that the person whose thumb was cut off, was located and they were able to sew his thumb back on. They were being very cagey about the circumstances, but from what I could gather, it had been foul play. Okay, so he’s alive, that’s good. But I had his fucking ear sitting in a box in my dresser. Shit, shit, shit.

Hours slowly crept by, thoughts of possible cameras in the woods, someone having seen me getting into my car; I was distraught. Having seen countless hours of Law & Order and having read way too many crime novels, I was certain I was fucked and headed for prison. Every minute that went by made it more impossible for me to go to the police, ear in hand, engulfed in shame and remorse.

A couple of days passed and the news networks were still not revealing the name of the individual that lost his appendages. On one hand I was relieved that he was alive, but the guilt I felt was all consuming. I’d thought about returning the ear to the woods, but my fear of being seen kept me from following through. I couldn’t tell anyone about my situation, knowing I’d be chided for my bad judgment.

Weeks turned into months as I finally let go of the dread. I hadn’t killed anyone for Christ’s sake. I knew by then that no one had seen me and that my secret would remain a secret. The only person I lied to was myself and I guess I’d have to live with that. I stayed away from the hiking path; out of sight, out of mind.

Months later I was walking out of my house and noticed a moving truck parked on the curb. I knew the house had been sold and that I’d soon have new neighbors. I went to work hoping that they’d be nice people. I thought I might go over to say hello when I got home.

When I pulled into my driveway that evening, my new neighbor came over to my car to greet me. He seemed friendly enough; his wife, standing by their front door, was a bit standoffish. His name was Jake and hers Suzanne. Jake told me that they would be having a barbeque in two weeks and he hoped that I would join them. I said that I certainly would be there.

A few nights later I turned on the news. At the close of the regular broadcast there was an announcement that they would be interviewing the man who had lost his thumb and ear months before. Apparently he was ready to tell his story. I almost turned off the television; I had moved on and I wasn’t sure I wanted to see the man’s face or hear his story. After all, his left ear remained hidden in my house. My curiosity got the better of me and I waited out the commercials for the interview. I got up to get a beer out of the refrigerator and I heard the news anchor introducing the man being interviewed. When he spoke, I thought I’d heard his voice before. When I walked into the living room, my new neighbor Jake was on the screen speaking about what happened to him in the woods. I stood staring in shock. Jake explained that he was jogging that day and a man jumped out of the bushes and hit him over the head with a bat. He said that he’d blacked out and woke-up some time later and staggered out of the woods to his car. His cell phone had been stolen and he was bleeding, but he didn’t realize how bad it was. He drove himself to the hospital and learned a short time later that his thumb had been recovered.

The interviewer talked about how fortunate Jake was that they could re-attach his thumb and then he asked Jake why he chose to remain anonymous. I kept shaking my head in disbelief. Jake said that he was fearful that the person who’d done this to him may have thought that Jake had seen his face. He was afraid the guy would want to finish him off. He further explained that the police had searched the woods for his left ear, but that there was no appeal to recover it because the surgeon explained that it was too long since the incident and they would be unable to re-attach it. Jake was calm and showed no anger toward the individual who may have found his ear and failed to report it.

I turned off the television, sat back on the sofa; all of the guilt rushing back, except that now, the guy whose ear was in my dresser lived next door. What would I do, what could I do? Jake could obviously never know that I found his ear and failed to contact the police. I’m not sure, but I think his wife Suzanne suspects that I have it. It was the way she looked at me the day they moved in. I will of course decline the barbeque invitation — I will decline any invitation from them. My plan was to drive the ear to the lake later that day. The bottom of the lake was a safer hiding place; hopefully denial will help with the rest.

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I’m enjoying this folks; thank you for indulging me.

This fictional piece was written in Oslo, Norway, where I am enjoying summer rain, an occasional fire, and delicious wild Atlantic Salmon. Paco’s first flight, but by any means, not his last.