Blood. So much blood. It’s on the television, in all its violent glory. Terror is overused, the word not the act. Though, he would agree on either side of the argument. If anyone wants to argue. Chances are most would agree.
“The whole world is doomed.” has replaced stagnant comments about the weather as the preferred sentences to follow your preferred opening pleasantries.
His rose colored glasses burned in the fires of adolescent ambition, now he only sees hapless faces in a hapless world.
“Sadness stands. Happiness soars.” He thinks to himself as the gray sky tortures the earth. “The wings of spring are nearing.”
Birds. The landscape is covered in birds. They call through the air that they soar through. It belongs to them. Like anything else that can be owned, it can be stolen.
The glint of sunlight off of his freshly sharpened hunting knife catches the eye of a child. The plan wasn’t to start here. No, not now. Tomorrow at the earliest but the unexpected landing of a red-tailed hawk within arm’s reach cannot be ignored.
The knife eases itself into his hand, then slips into the feathered flesh of the creature. And fifteen feet away, it carves into a young child’s mind. A scream pierces the air. The thing with young children is all their screams sound the same. He will think of this later but for now he’s dancing in the blood of the hawk. Or rather, the blood is dancing on him. The hawk died with its talons in the man’s flesh but he’s too euphoric to care about the pain.
The wings of the creature fall, while loose feathers float through the quiet breeze. The air has been cut, the hawk has been cut, the man has been cut, and the child’s screaming has been cut short by parental comfort.
The child’s mark on the air has been silenced and now overpowered by a police siren.
The body of the hawk falls to the ground.
The child looks on in horror.
The man leaps over the back of the bench. The hawk’s wings still in hand. The tips of their light bones have been exposed, ready to begin their new life. He cuts the air with a yelp in pain as his knife pierces his flesh just below each of his shoulder blades.
Throughout the park, a colorful choir of screams erupt and tear through the air. He knows he’s the conductor of this symphony as he injects his wings into the bleeding holes he’s made.
He hears what sounds like heavy boots pounding the sidewalk behind him, closing in fast. He turns to look and a sudden piercing feeling hits him square in the back. A bolt of lightning is no friend to any bird.
“Stay down!” His pursuer shouts, releasing the trigger of the taser.
He feels the feathers of his wings as the police officer cuffs his hands. The metal is tight and terrible. He looks back to the bench…
I am the same as everything I hate in this world. I stole and stamped out something I could never ever use. Can grounded ambition ever be put to proper use?