Birdsong

I love it when they scream. It’s such a beautiful melody that I find myself swaying to the rhythm as some would sway to an opera. You can hear their blissful discord of despair: the regrets of life choices, their fears of the voices in the shadows, their anger at society. Oh, how I revel in the song.

My birds sang for me. So glorious their tune was. I imagined the sound for years but never did I think the final requiem would be as staggering as what it was. As intoxicating. The fear in their eyes as they beheld me... it still makes my heartbeat that bit faster. Some sang until they could sing no more. Some never stopped singing. I liked them the best. They were the ones that twisted my face into an everlasting smile. Truly, I miss it.

The screams grow louder. A smile begins to grow as I remember how my birds’ songs grew louder. It was an outstanding symphony and I, of course, was the orchestrator. I loved dancing to it. The rhythm constantly changing as my hand directed the euphony. This is nothing like the one I composed. It lacks the flair of drama and purpose, this is a cacophony compared to my exquisite symphony. However, beggars can’t be choosers in a world behind bars.

The banging of metal bars joins the prisoner’s screams. With no composer, the song is erratic however the despair makes it plausible enough to enjoy. My birdsongs were far more talented but my orchestration had to end eventually. What a shame it’ll be in a tin can with extra locks and suspiciously no keys. They will never give me a chance to leave, to improve my talents and spread it across the country. Of course, they wouldn’t. Instead, the walls enclose and my talents are wasted. That’s why when I made my finally birdie sing I made it an exquisite song.

I took her hands and tied them so she dangled like butcher’s meat. That was when my final birdie began her final song. I grabbed the fish hooks off the platinum tray and pulled her mouth into a smile. How pretty my birdie looked when she smiled. Then I hooked her eyelids to her eyebrows so she’d look upon on my work and truly despair. She witnessed me take strips by strips off her skin never enough to kill but enough to enhance her song. Her screams. Soon she began to beg for her death. For the analgesic darkness. But I couldn’t let that happen. Her song hadn’t ended yet. I spent hours directing the symphony with every carve and strip of skin until my birdies body was a mutilation. Never did I touch her face. Some canvases are too pretty to draw on. I watched as the birdies blood danced to her screams as did I until there was no more music to dance to. And as the final chord ended as did my orchestration.

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