Bird Lover

Birds

I have always loved the sound of birdsong. Whether it be the chirp of a robin, or the screech of a hawk; I have always found delight in their songs. This love could have stemmed from pleasant memories of birdwatching with my father. He would occasionally shake me awake at 4 in the morning to gaze upon a particularly handsome canary. We would go on long walks with our picnic baskets, our eyes darting around in hope of spotting one of the feathered creatures. When whe found one, my father would always silently walk towards it, crouch down, and sketch it. He was an amazing artist. His sketches almost lifelke. I had a sketchbook too of course. My measly scribbles could never compare to his life like art. He always seemed to have a knack for getting birds to come up to him. I would say, "Father, why do they have no fear for you?" His response was always the same. He would say, with a playful twinkle in his brown eyes, "They know me. They all do. From this pidgeon right here, to the Vultures in the south. They all know me." I found it preposterous. All the birds in the world cannot know you. That is simply impossible. I soon came to find out, however, that I may have been wrong.
  
    Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I open the dusty wooden chest where my father's sketches lay. Hundreds of pages of birds. After my father's passing, my mother locked all of his bird related belongings in the attic. She went out of her way to rid herself of every bird in the house. Plates, paintings, bedsheets, It did not matter what it was it had to be thrown away. Her obsession with birds had driven her to madness. The word was banned from our house. She would stay inside to avoid seeing or hearing any of the feathery creatures. One day, she ran to me and clutched my shoulders. Digging her bony fingers into my skin. She said to me something I will never forget. She looked me in my eyes and said, "Anthony, please help me. They are everywhere. They are in my eyes. They are in my head. They are in you." Her crazed eyes fixed on me with a look of pure loathing. I barely had time to think before she grabbed a nearby knife and made to stab me. I dodged and held her down. Help arrived shortly and she was whisked away to a psyc ward. I attempted to see her many times but every time she saw me, she flew into a rage. Throwing objects at my head, calling me the devil. It broke me.
  Now I sit alone in my dusty attic. Looking at my father's sketches and thinking about my parents. Wondering if it really is all my fault. Wondering if I am a devil. Suddenly I hear a flap of wings next to my ear.