Damn Birds

This is a work of fiction. No matter how visceral the details, this narrative is a calculated, delusional fabrication. Every perpetrator, victim, and witness; every suspect, subject, and bystander; every institution, organization, and burial site is a construct of the author’s design. From the hunting grounds to the dumping grounds, these settings and atrocities are a fictionalized stage for a fictionalized descent.

Should you encounter a detail you think you know, or a tragedy that mirrors your nightmares, understand that any resemblance to lives lived or lost, whether they be the breathing, the buried, or the missing, is a chilling coincidence. This is not evidence nor confession. Any blood spilled in these pages is ink, nothing more.

Copyright © 2010 by r c leone

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form  or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Osetion, LLC

First edition

DAMN BIRDS

I never would’ve purchased this house had I known that my bird would find me here. Leaving New York should’ve been enough. Traveling halfway across the country should’ve clinched it. Homing Pigeons are one thing, but to find a person in a new place must be some new genetic twist. Lesson learned. A more permanent result is required.

The long-term fascination with birds eludes me. The initial intrigue is obvious. Hell, I’m guilty, drawn in by the alluring shapes and soft textures, the invigorating sensations of handling a new bird. The thrill and excitement of the first look and initial encounter. The whole illusion dissolves in short time though. Those endorphins wear off with the constant chattering, and the smell. I can always tell when one of my friends has a bird around, even just overnight.

The stench is terrible, and in everything. Worse than the smell of cigarette smoke in rental cars or hotel rooms. Trying to hide it with perfume just seems to make it worse. You just can’t get away from it. On top of that, birds are so needy and demanding, they take over your life. How can anyone bear to live that way? This move was supposed to be a new start. Find a new group of friends that are not quite so bird centric. Break old habits.

My bird however, showed up the first night in the new house. Sitting on my bed, smug as the day I moved out of Mom’s house. This time things were different, coloring a little off, but no noise and no smell. Hallelujah! Before, the constant chatter was maddening, nonstop until I did things. Not so bad in the beginning, even somewhat enjoyable, but slowly the things started getting out of control. No one seemed to notice but I think the garbage men were getting suspicious, with all the bags. Without the noise, this might not be too bad.

That first night, sleep was nonexistent, worrying something was going to happen as soon as I relaxed. My bird just sat there staring at me the whole time. By midnight, enough was enough. A walk would be good, might as well check out the action around the new neighborhood. Just like before the bird followed me to the front door but stopped short of venturing outside. My freedom was outside.

Walking the city streets there were birds everywhere, making a terrible racket and stinking up everything. All shapes and sizes. Charlie’s bar looked like refuge. A plain brick exterior with small windows, not very enticing from a curb appeal perspective. The door was heavy and wooden with a huge spring mechanism to keep it swung shut. The lights were on but not very helpful. The dark spaces added to the ambiance of isolation and despair. The smells were of stale beer and dust, no sign or scent of birds. A few drinks would probably do me good. Maybe help me sleep.

Settling in at the bar, I lost track after five or six drinks. Then the door slammed open. A small flock of birds stumbled in. Drunken birds are the worst of the worst. Not only was their incessant chatter louder, but they wanted to hang all over you. This young flock was no different. It was time to go. The last thing I remember was trying to stand to leave. A little sway, a little stagger, and a bird closing in on me.

My slow return to consciousness was a gradual increase in volume of nondescript sounds. Vision blurred at best, not sure where my body rested. The eventual realization that I was in the new house was but a brief comfort. Nausea ensued. I jumped and ran for the bathroom, christening my new throne. The convulsions and cold sweat ushered the world back in to focus. Then the stench hit.

Using the doorway as support, a survey of the room confirmed the source. The bed wrecked, with a bird twisted in the sheets, a dead bird at that. Here we go again. The wave hit for round two, worshipping the throne, always worse than the first with less substance to show for the effort. Once recovered, my bird was there gloating, but not a sound. Somehow, things had picked up right where they left off at Mom’s house.

This was the first time I blacked out, missing the details. Now the bed needed cleaning, then the room, then the whole house. As before, the basement made a suitable storage space for the body. Once dead, the bad bird smell dissipates as the body dries. Fear prevented me from dealing with the bodies last time. The procrastination went too long. Then I ended up trashing them all at once. This time around, I’ll handle them as they occur, being extra careful with the garbage.

This time around the routine was a little more confusing. I think my bird brought the other birds to the house. At first, the new birds would be intriguing, alluring and beautiful. However, once the stench set in they had to go. The first couple I remember just killing with a broom. Birds are fragile, so a few determined smacks usually did the trick. This went on for a month or so. Then my bird brought one that looked just like her.

My heart skipped. She was radiant. I ran up the stairs to embrace her, but she started screaming. I chased her to the bedroom, tackling her to the floor. The contact excited me, but the chatter had to stop. As I gripped her neck a current surged through me. It was euphoric. Then it was over.

Moving is not enough. She’ll show up again, starting it all over. I need to finish her with the house. That should take care of the bodies and her. Kill two birds with one stone if you will.

Tomorrow, I’m burning it down.