Broken

Chapter 1

The sparrow flutters its wings against my cupped palms, tickling my fingers. Every breath looks painful for the little bird, with its feathers puffing out and sinking back in. I watch curiously, fascinated by its slow death. For some reason, watching it die calms the noise in my head. The constant banging in there is enough to drive anyone insane. I enjoy the moment of silence, and watch the bird take its final breath through his open beak. One eye, stares accusingly at me.

"Oh my God, did you just kill that bird?" my sister Mia shrieks. She's standing outside, with the front door wide open. Her eyes are large and brimming with blame. "I'm telling mom what you did!"

Mia turns and slams the door shut behind her. I can hear her calling for our mother. I honestly don't know why Mia bothers tattling, nothing will come of it. I know Mom won't do anything; she never does. She doesn't care what I do, or what anyone does for that matter. Our mom is checked out emotionally.

I look at the tiny dead bird in my hands, cradled in them, and I feel envious. How nice it must be to be hugged by someone, to feel their embrace warming your cold core. How nice it must feel to be dead.

"Mom, DO something!" Mia's voice trills through an open upstairs window and I smile.

The thing is, I didn't kill this bird. It flew into the living room window and hurt itself. Maybe it was already sick and was trying to commit suicide. Do birds do that? I heard the crash from the kitchen and went outside to investigate. This bird was going to die whether I picked it up or not. I'm okay with Mia thinking I killed it though. In a way, I wish I had. Sometimes I dream of killing, sometimes it's an animal, and sometimes it's a person. I wake up from those dreams in a cold sweat, with my heart pounding in my ears. Only, I'm not horrified by what I've done, I'm excited. The thrill of the chase and the capture and then the inevitable kill is such a rush that I feel high for days from it.

I carry Mr. Feathers to the backyard. I decided to name him that because it makes our moment together feel more special. I place him gently on the cool green grass and begin to tear at the lawn, ripping and digging at it until I see the soil underneath. I make a hole in the dirt, big enough for Mr. Feathers and place him inside it. I cover him with the excess soil and pat it down, trying to make the uneven mound look like the rest of the lawn. It's a mess. Dad won't be happy about this, but it had to be done. My bird-friend needed a proper burial.

I stand and brush myself off and look toward the house. I see my mother staring at me from an upstairs window. We make brief eye contact before she shakes her head and moves away from the window into the darkness beyond.

There's a story my mom loves to tell people, like she's proud of herself for coming up with the idea. When I was a baby, she hated having to hold me to feed me my bottle. She considered it a waste of her time, so she devised a plan. She would prop me up on the floor with cushions from the couch and balance the bottle in my mouth with her foot, leaving her hands free to read or eat or whatever. Her lack of mothering stayed with me. When I was little, I would resort to begging for hugs from teachers, just to feel affection from someone, it didn't matter who. Some would oblige me, and some wouldn't.

I see my sister Mia stomping toward me, her face a mask of fury. Since mom won't do anything, Mia is taking it upon herself to punish me. I try to stifle the angry noise that's building up inside my head.

"I didn't kill it, so you can calm your face now." I shove her on the shoulder and accidently push her too hard. She falls to the ground with a thud. Her lips move but no sound comes out. I want to kick her, hard, in the ribs and stomach and face. I'm furious that she thinks I would kill a bird, and even more furious that she's right.

I slap my head with my hands and pull at my hair. I sprint past my sister who wisely stays quiet. I run into the house and find my mother folding laundry in the living room. She glances at me, but says nothing. She just continues sorting underwear. Why won't she talk to me about what she thinks she saw? Yell at me, even?

I huff angrily and run upstairs to my room. I open my closet and reach behind my clothes to the shelf in the back. I find the perfectly rolled joint that's hidden there and light it up. I inhale deeply, letting the herb work its magic. Immediately, my mood relaxes and the buzzing in my brain subsides. I flop on my bed, pull out my phone and scroll through until I find what I'm looking for. My favorite death-core band, Carcass. I turn the music up and let the dark lyrics inside.

I must have dozed off because the next thing I know, my father is banging on my door, and he doesn't sound happy.