Pretty Bird
Low, but insistent, the sound insinuated itself into his ears and pulled him slowly from his bleak dreams. He muttered to himself, winding deeper into the blankets and drawing them over his head.
Tappety-tappety-tap!
Knuckles rapped against the door of his mind. A fragment of some long-ago-known but now forgotten jazz melody floated over the top of the odd, disjointed rhythm and then was gone.
Tappety-tappety-tap! TAP!
The coarse blanket scratched the skin of his face. A thick string of saliva wound its way down his chin and pooled in the notch at the base of his neck. He sneezed as stray fibres from the bedclothes tickled the back of his nose.
TAP!
Some deep part of him panicked briefly at the suffocating closeness and his arms flailed and flung the blanket away from his face. His fingers kneaded his eyes, rubbing the night-grit from their corners.
TAP! TAP! TAP!
"What?"
The sound of his voice startled him, sounding thick and menacing in the gloom of his bedroom.
TAP! TAP! TAP!
(From behind the black curtains at the window ...)
TAP! TAP! TAP!
He wearily hauled himself up, his hand stretching automatically towards the dressing-gown that was flung over the back of the rickety chair at his bedside.
What does it matter? There’s no-one here to see.
Nevertheless habit over-ruled the thought and he pulled the threadbare garment around him and knotted the belt.
TAP! TAP! TAP!
Tappety-tappety-Tappety-tap!!!
Fast. Furious. Hot needles in his forehead. He winced and tore the curtains open.
He blinked as the spring sunshine rushed joyously into the room. A fat raven sat on the other side of the glass. Its head shot forward.
TAP!
The glass shook in its frame from the impact of the beak. The raven cocked its head and looked at him slyly.
"You bastard!", he screamed.
He pounded against the window, wheezing in his fury.
The raven grinned. Mockingly. It spread its wings, flapped them languidly, and rose into the sky.
His wheezing grew worse. His heart fluttered in his chest.
Like wings. It feels just like wings!
His hands trembled as he fumbled open the bottle of pills. A white shower spilled from it and separated, each dry droplet bouncing on the dusty carpet. He fell to his knees and scooped up a handful of them, shoving them into his mouth and swallowing them. He coughed, and the wings inside him beat more urgently.
Doctors! Bloody doctors!
His hands clutched the pounding centre of his chest as he sank backwards and lay gasping on the floor. His head moved from side to side until his eyes rested on the photograph on the bedside table. Pretty, nose freckled by the summer sun, she smiles into the camera.
Called her my pretty bird. I did. Loved them, she did. But they killed her.
(A hand reaches out towards the injured gull, flapping broken-winged on the ledge. And reaches out forever. In a cascade of stones they fall together towards the far-below sea.
"NO!")
A tear began in the corner of one eye and tracked its way down the crease in his cheek.
Fifty years we would have been together by now. Me and my pretty bird.
The frenzy in his chest lessened and stilled, but he continued to lie there, his breath rasping as he indulged in the self-torment of picturing a marriage that never was: the children and their children, the happy hours walking and talking, even the disputes made sweet by the reconciliations that followed them.
Birds. Bloody birds!
It was, he supposed, time to gather in the morning’s harvest of revenge, to take what small satisfactions it would offer him. Stiffly, he rose and dressed and, pausing to pick up a plastic carrier bag from the untidy heap on the kitchen floor, he shuffled through the back door and out into the overgrown garden.
Perhaps half a dozen small, brown corpses lay stiffly on and around the bird table that nestled in amongst the tall nettles. Muttering disgustedly to himself, he picked them up and dropped them into his bag. One had died with a piece of the poisoned daily bread still wedged in its beak.
So many I’ve killed, but still they come. Filthy, dirty, robbing creatures.
As he picked the last one up some final spasm of life briefly reanimated it. A brown, beady eye fixed on him, communicating an emotion he found impossible to identify. It moved in his hand and its beak closed painfully on his flesh. He screamed and dropped the bag, the corpses spilling out around his feet. He hurled the still-twitching thing from him and sucked at the blood that welled from the tiny puncture at the base of his thumb. An ominous throbbing began in his chest.
As he reeled backwards, the sudden shock of adrenaline dizzying him, a cloud seemed to darken the sun. He heard and felt the bones of one of his victims crunch under his foot and he slipped and fell among the tall strands of dewy grass. He landed on his back with a jarring impact that drove the breath from his lungs and left his heart fluttering wildly and painfully against the cage of his ribs.
Far, far above him, a turbulent thick cloud boiled in the sky, shredding the sunlight.
What?
His eyes strained to make sense of the sight.
Ravens! It’s ravens! Thousands of ravens!
His heart lurched. He could feel it take on a life of its own, tearing itself from its anchorage and scrabbling furiously upwards.
Pills. My pills!
His hands tore uselessly at the grass as his consciousness shrank to a single bright point and he died, his jaw dislocating itself as his mouth opened in a final, silent scream.
In the sudden calm no-one was there to see the scarlet bird which flew out of his mouth and then up into the centre of the black cloud. Welcoming - loving - it closed around the single red dot at its heart and bore it away into the vast blue sky.
Tappety-tappety-tap!
Knuckles rapped against the door of his mind. A fragment of some long-ago-known but now forgotten jazz melody floated over the top of the odd, disjointed rhythm and then was gone.
Tappety-tappety-tap! TAP!
The coarse blanket scratched the skin of his face. A thick string of saliva wound its way down his chin and pooled in the notch at the base of his neck. He sneezed as stray fibres from the bedclothes tickled the back of his nose.
TAP!
Some deep part of him panicked briefly at the suffocating closeness and his arms flailed and flung the blanket away from his face. His fingers kneaded his eyes, rubbing the night-grit from their corners.
TAP! TAP! TAP!
"What?"
The sound of his voice startled him, sounding thick and menacing in the gloom of his bedroom.
TAP! TAP! TAP!
(From behind the black curtains at the window ...)
TAP! TAP! TAP!
He wearily hauled himself up, his hand stretching automatically towards the dressing-gown that was flung over the back of the rickety chair at his bedside.
What does it matter? There’s no-one here to see.
Nevertheless habit over-ruled the thought and he pulled the threadbare garment around him and knotted the belt.
TAP! TAP! TAP!
Tappety-tappety-Tappety-tap!!!
Fast. Furious. Hot needles in his forehead. He winced and tore the curtains open.
He blinked as the spring sunshine rushed joyously into the room. A fat raven sat on the other side of the glass. Its head shot forward.
TAP!
The glass shook in its frame from the impact of the beak. The raven cocked its head and looked at him slyly.
"You bastard!", he screamed.
He pounded against the window, wheezing in his fury.
The raven grinned. Mockingly. It spread its wings, flapped them languidly, and rose into the sky.
His wheezing grew worse. His heart fluttered in his chest.
Like wings. It feels just like wings!
His hands trembled as he fumbled open the bottle of pills. A white shower spilled from it and separated, each dry droplet bouncing on the dusty carpet. He fell to his knees and scooped up a handful of them, shoving them into his mouth and swallowing them. He coughed, and the wings inside him beat more urgently.
Doctors! Bloody doctors!
His hands clutched the pounding centre of his chest as he sank backwards and lay gasping on the floor. His head moved from side to side until his eyes rested on the photograph on the bedside table. Pretty, nose freckled by the summer sun, she smiles into the camera.
Called her my pretty bird. I did. Loved them, she did. But they killed her.
(A hand reaches out towards the injured gull, flapping broken-winged on the ledge. And reaches out forever. In a cascade of stones they fall together towards the far-below sea.
"NO!")
A tear began in the corner of one eye and tracked its way down the crease in his cheek.
Fifty years we would have been together by now. Me and my pretty bird.
The frenzy in his chest lessened and stilled, but he continued to lie there, his breath rasping as he indulged in the self-torment of picturing a marriage that never was: the children and their children, the happy hours walking and talking, even the disputes made sweet by the reconciliations that followed them.
Birds. Bloody birds!
It was, he supposed, time to gather in the morning’s harvest of revenge, to take what small satisfactions it would offer him. Stiffly, he rose and dressed and, pausing to pick up a plastic carrier bag from the untidy heap on the kitchen floor, he shuffled through the back door and out into the overgrown garden.
Perhaps half a dozen small, brown corpses lay stiffly on and around the bird table that nestled in amongst the tall nettles. Muttering disgustedly to himself, he picked them up and dropped them into his bag. One had died with a piece of the poisoned daily bread still wedged in its beak.
So many I’ve killed, but still they come. Filthy, dirty, robbing creatures.
As he picked the last one up some final spasm of life briefly reanimated it. A brown, beady eye fixed on him, communicating an emotion he found impossible to identify. It moved in his hand and its beak closed painfully on his flesh. He screamed and dropped the bag, the corpses spilling out around his feet. He hurled the still-twitching thing from him and sucked at the blood that welled from the tiny puncture at the base of his thumb. An ominous throbbing began in his chest.
As he reeled backwards, the sudden shock of adrenaline dizzying him, a cloud seemed to darken the sun. He heard and felt the bones of one of his victims crunch under his foot and he slipped and fell among the tall strands of dewy grass. He landed on his back with a jarring impact that drove the breath from his lungs and left his heart fluttering wildly and painfully against the cage of his ribs.
Far, far above him, a turbulent thick cloud boiled in the sky, shredding the sunlight.
What?
His eyes strained to make sense of the sight.
Ravens! It’s ravens! Thousands of ravens!
His heart lurched. He could feel it take on a life of its own, tearing itself from its anchorage and scrabbling furiously upwards.
Pills. My pills!
His hands tore uselessly at the grass as his consciousness shrank to a single bright point and he died, his jaw dislocating itself as his mouth opened in a final, silent scream.
In the sudden calm no-one was there to see the scarlet bird which flew out of his mouth and then up into the centre of the black cloud. Welcoming - loving - it closed around the single red dot at its heart and bore it away into the vast blue sky.
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