The Legacy of Dirty Birds

Terror and Tender

     Calum's body was rocked by guilt. This time a cold, numb breed of shame that always had one hand wrapped around his throat. The bandage on his hand was abandoned on the floor. Anytime he reached up to his neck, his fingers found hair. Or feathers.

     When the fire died down, Calum got a sack one by one, picked up all the feathers he'd pulled out. It was a dwindling number, thanks to the bandages on his hands, but he really needed another solution. Preferably before he was walking around like a rotisserie chicken.

     His feathers were so big, and every day they got bigger. His wingspan was twice the size of his arm-span. Each one of his primary feathers was almost at tall as he was. They were a pain to pluck, so he'd left them alone. Calum knew that was only until his stupid brain could figure out how to get at them. Yesterday he'd gotten honey on a primary, it had bugged him until he realized he could pull out the barbels individually. He'd gotten a few inches off that night before the horror of what he was doing kicked in.

     Now he was picking up the spoils of his disgraceful war and sneaking out, because even Deadwing has to sleep eventually. He hated going behind Dee's back but the thought of confronting him about this, especially now after he'd clearly done something else to upset him, it sent Calum's stomach into painful knots. It's okay if I'm protecting him from...this.

     He'd learned how to glide down to the ground. The Calum walked what he figured was a few miles. Far enough away that Deadwing, who could fly, would never find it. He'd dump the feathers into a different bush each time. The way back was a mix of short gliding bursts when he was too tired to run. He always tried to fly back, but hadn't quite gotten to that point.

     Then he would struggle to reach the first sturdy branch of their tree, it was all he needed to get up. Once he'd grabbed a weak one, it broke and he fell hard to the ground, waking Deadwing up. He lied about just wanting to use the bathroom. For some reason Deadwing bought it.

     He prayed for the day when this horrible cycle would end.

     This time his hand clamped firmly onto the branch he wanted. For a second, he was a younger, more terrified boy with a sprained ankle, holding onto the bottom rung of a ladder. He pushed through it. He'd done it too many times. He would find a way to push through this too.

     He watched the embers for a few minutes before going back to bed, thinking about the blank look on Deadwing's face from earlier. It was like he'd disappeared for a few seconds, leaving his empty cicada skin until the next time he would emerge. Calum noticed their ears twitched when he talked, so he'd just kept talking. It seemed to have helped. Until he blew it. Until he inevitably messed everything up again. He pulled out a few hairs from the side of his head, and  swiped them across his lips. He let the disgust simmer within him as he dropped them into the fire. The smell was enough to snap him out of it.

     Behind him, Deadwing gasped, his wings shooting out and knocking over the empty kettle on the table. Calum whipped around as it clattered to the floor. Deadwing's back rose and fell dramatically as he hyperventilated. He started curling himself up into a ball. Calum thought he heard them talking to themself, or was it just whimpering?

     "Deadwing?"

     It was just bright enough for Calum to see him flinch. He crawled over to him, and could hear what Deadwing was repeating over and over.

     "You are not deserving of a name. You must not speak of our culture; it doesn't belong to you. You must cut your hair. You are not deserving of a name. You must not speak of our culture; it doesn't belong to you. You must cut your h—" Calum put his hand on Deadwing's shoulder, and he cried out in pain and twisted away.