Really short and came from something I was watching on TV one night.
That bird was consistent alright. Every morning, ten o’clock on the dot, “Thwack!”
The sound didn’t bother me so much, but my window looked like a prop from a bad slasher film. Blood splattered across it, mixing with a film of dust and a sprinkling of down feathers. It didn’t matter if I cleaned it. It would just come back and do it all over again.
My grandfather once told me that a bird flinging itself into a window meant death. I’ve never been very superstitious, but I used to guard the windows of my grandfather’s house, making sure no birds killed him.
My husband thought we should just open the window. Sometimes I wondered if his head was full of lead.
“Yeah, that would be perfect. Let’s have birds flying into our house. I’ve always wanted to be pecked and clawed to death.”
Yes, I acted a bit irrational, but don’t those things carry diseases? I’d rather just deal with the bird guts sliding down my window.
Nine fifty nine on the clock. I stared at the window.
“Hunny,” my husband called from upstairs. “I’m going to see if I can’t repair the sink! Can you bring my tools?” He liked to fancy himself a plumber. The poor idiot didn’t realize a bag of tools wouldn’t turn him into one.
I didn’t answer. I was too busy waiting for the suicidal bird. I’d call a real plumber afterwards.
Three . . . two . . . one . . .
I rushed to the window amazed by how hard that bird slammed into it. The thing had finally done itself in. It lay on the sill, legs curled and toes turned in.
“Good. That will be the last of that.” I turned and ran up the stairs with a new sense of urgency. If I didn’t hurry, he’d have that sink spewing like a geyser. “Hun?” I called out.
The sound of rushing water filled the corridor. A puddle flooded out of the bathroom and down the hardwood floors. I shook my head in irritation. We just installed those floors. I stomped down the hallway and turned into the bathroom.
I stopped and let out the most blood-curdling scream you can imagine.
I stared at the horrifying sight of my husband’s legs, limp and motionless. I scurried to the counter and looked into the hole where the sink should be. There I found my husband, or what was left of him. His face caved in and blood oozed around his head. It wasn’t the bird that made that crash. That was the sound of my husband’s death.
I sit here now, alone in this house. The blood on the window remains. I can’t bring myself to wash it down. I stare at it, like I need it to change. Finally, I give in to my exhaustion. I haven’t slept in days.
I reach the bottom of the stairs when . . .
Copyright © 2015 by Sophie Giroir