A Mockingbird In The Crows Nest

A Conversation At Midnight, And A Day At The Park

He can smell gunpowder in the air. Or was that soot from the fires? He couldn't tell anymore, and he was too scared to check. Too scared to peek out from around the corner of the building and look at what was happening. Either way, it made him feel sick. He might've thrown up if there was anything in his stomach to lose.

Several shots ring out, and Tommy pulls his little wings against himself; covering his head and neck to try and shield himself from the bullets. The seven year old whimpers weakly in his hiding spot next to the dumpster, desperately wishing the police and bad guys to go away.

He can hear yelling. Can hear the bad guys yelling and the police arguing back as they fight- and Tommy stifles a cry when more gunshots ring out. He just wants to go home. He wants to go back to his little bundle of blankets; tucked safely away in the corner of his little treehouse in the park.

He should've stayed home with Boop. Boop was nice. He would sit on Tommy's finger and sip nectar from the flowers he picked- and he wouldn't even sting him! Boop was the nicest bee. The only bee ever, really.

There's another explosion, and Tommy shrieks and covers his head with his wings. They're too small to really cover him fully, but he doesn't care. He just needs some form of protection against the fight going on around the corner.

Then he hears footsteps.

Footsteps running his way, and-

And-

Tommy jolts awake in bed, gasping for breath and digging his nails into Henry- the cow plush he'd been given -and shaking. For a moment, he's frozen in his bed. Stuck staring up at his ceiling as his heartbeat thunders in his head and blocks everything else out. He tries to unclench his fingers- not really wanting to damage the plush he's practically crushing in his fingers -but they don't even twitch.

His heart picks up even more speed, darting his eyes around and gasping weakly to suck in a breath.

But he- He can't.

For whatever reason, he can't actually suck in a breath like he wants to. Like he needs to.

He feels like he's drowning.

Like- Like a fucking fish who got dragged out of the river and got pinned to a rock to suffocate.

He can't move.

He can't breathe.

Tears prick at his eyes as he stares unblinking at his ceiling. He needs to move. He needs to get up and do something. He needs to breathe. But he can't! He can't-

There's a bark from his door, and suddenly there's a cold, wet nose pressing into his face. A tongue swipes over his cheek and there's a paw on his chest; and suddenly, whatever's been clogging up his chest clears. He sucks in a desperate breath of air and coughs, curling up limply as he struggles to get his breathing under control.