"For The Birds" (First Draft)

A man and his wife get their wish to become parents but something is off with the crows lurking in the yard.

All I’ve ever wanted was a family. They say to be careful what you wish for, I’m now starting to fully comprehend the sentiment.

Nyah is everything. She’s the embodiment of an infallible partner. She listens, really listens. Always keeping eye contact with me as I mumble. I’ve been drowning in her dark chocolate eyes for years, never succumbing to the instinct to come up for air. Her olive skin stretches perfectly over her faultless bones. Not one blemish, beauty mark, or imperfection resides among her flesh, omitting a crescent moon shaped scar, just below her chin. She disdains it— she’s perfect.

We’re only getting older. I’m 37 and Nyah’s 35. We’ve been married two years and have been trying to get pregnant to no avail.

To be a father is my greatest wish. I couldn’t imagine something being a part of me, coming from me, and sharing my DNA. I’m sick of caring for cats and dogs. Too much hair and too much heartbreak. I crave the real heartbreak and reconstruction. I want to watch my child grow. Depend on me, resent me, reconcile with me, and realize I knew what was best all along. Then he or she would take care of me in my old age. Full circle. You know? With each dreaded birthday my dream becomes more and more unattainable.

One evening, Nyah approached me as I was sitting on the couch, watching some mindless game show. When Nyah asks, you answer. She guided me to the bathroom as the steam from the shower plagued the mirror. We went at it, knocking the shampoo and soap off the ledge, as we scrubbed into all the unreachable spots. I felt dirty, euphoric, and out of breath after wrapping the towel around my waist.

Two weeks later Nyah told me she was pregnant. We were happily surprised and overjoyed. Finally, our prayers had been answered.

Our small apartment in the city would no longer suffice. We were about to be a real family. We began our search for our forever home and settled on a quaint 2-bedroom apartment in Queens, New York. No longer would we have to take the elevator. Just stick a golden key in the front door and live at sea level.

Atticus James Foster was born on October 12^th, 1997, Nyah and I were as proud as could be. Atticus was born with a distinctive birth mark under his left cheek. Resembling a blossoming raspberry. I planned to tell him as he got older, the kids at school only teased him for it because they were jealous.

We were so happy. Nyah, beautiful as ever, held my son in the moonlight as it crept through the blinds. She would sing to Atticus. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

How did I become so lucky? This was my tribe, my world. Every night, after putting Atticus to bed, I’d tell Nyah I loved her, ensuring she absorbed my sincerity. Then she’d rest her head on my chest, as I gently traced her scar with my thumb until we both fell asleep.

Atticus never slept well. His crib was pressed up against a large window in the second bedroom that we converted into a nursery. Every morning his cries would echo through the home. I noticed his glossy eyes were locked on a murder of crows sitting on the clothesline in our backyard. Their eerie gaze was fixated on my son, as they cawed and hollered in the morning light. I felt a sharp chill engulf my spine.

Nyah sang to calm him. Although nothing we ever did would disconnect Atticus’s gaze on the horrid crows. They seemed intent on causing hysterics.

We moved the crib into the kitchen; it got so bad. Then the crows moved to the alleyway. Cawing and screaming, relentlessly— as if they knew we moved our child.

My patience had been evaporated by the relentless assault from the crows. I purchased a BB gun. One by one I would pick the little bastards off the clothesline. Watching their bodies bounce off the concrete brought extreme bliss. It didn’t help. No matter how many I shot, it felt as if two would be put in their place come morning.

Atticus never got better. As soon as his eyes became grasped by the crows, his body would shake violently. Nyah and I felt trapped in our own home. Helpless and confused. We tried to ask for help but were ultimately labeled as crazy. Try calling animal control and then when they show up, they tell you there’s nothing we can do about the crows in your yard. Birds will be birds, was the explanation.

On a cold October night, a fierce wind roared down the alley like a rollercoaster filled with shouting carnival goers. We had moved the crib back to its proper spot. No son of mine was going to sleep in a cold kitchen because of some birds. Somehow my family slept soundly through the windy night.

Come morning, I was awakened by the aching in my back. Nyah was still asleep, snoring lightly like a purring kitten. I was surprised to hear silence throughout the home. Usually, Atticus would be screaming bloody murder as the feathered alarm clock screeched in unison.

I enjoyed another ten minutes of stillness before willing my feet into my slippers and made my way to the kitchen. I was careful to move slowly, like the hour hand of a clock, all in hopes of keeping my son trapped in blissful slumber.

My senses became stirred by the smoky and nutty aroma filling up the coffee pot. I sat for a while and enjoyed the solitude on a perfect fall morning.

Nyah joined me an hour later. Since Atticus never slept this late, she grew mildly concerned. I assured her he was fine. I checked on him before I made coffee. He was just catching up on the sleep that had been stolen from him by the birds. Nevertheless, I patted Nyah’s hand, kissed her softly on the cheek, and went to wake him for breakfast.

Opening the door, I was surprised the room was drenched in darkness. The shades had been undrawn. Usually, the warm sun fills the nursery but there was a blackness covering the window.

Upon further inspection, my hands began to tremble, as I discovered this oil-black sheet had eyes and feathers. The crows had formed a sinister eclipse, covering the entirety of the windowpane, blocking out the daylight.

I struck the glass and observed as the buggers scattered skyward. I then opened the window, cursing them to leave us undisturbed. Although I anticipated that my tantrum would awaken Atticus and cause him distress, the only sound from behind me was the gentle clicking of the baby mobile rotating above his crib.

From the neckdown I felt trapped in ice. As I gradually turned my head, the cold faded away, giving rise to an intense, searing heat— Atticus was gone.

My bones cracked like eggshells beneath my flesh as I fell to my knees. The sound that left my throat shattered my eardrums as I shook the crib’s wooden bars that had played fortress to my son just hours ago.

My hysterics brought Nyah rushing in. Her scream was even more chilling than my own.

The police were called. There was no evidence of forced entry, no suspects identified, and nothing appeared disturbed. I clenched my fist as I noted the officer’s questioning glances toward Nyah and myself, implying possible involvement on our part. However, I knew the incident was related to the birds.

Our marriage started to untangle rapidly in the days to come. Nyah rarely left the nursery. The Muddy Waters record that used to spin on the living room turntable in the late afternoons had been replaced by the guttural sobs of a broken, grieving mother.

Nyah ceased all communication after the third day. The love that we crafted and nourished for years had dissolved like a cube of sugar in boiling water— now that our boy was taken.

The woman I loved was gone. The man she loved was also gone. Two hollow creatures with sunken eyes and shivered hearts, living in a cave of severe despair, knowing we didn’t possess the durability to move on— but praying we could pull the trigger through sheer intrepidity.

The birds had vanished. I conceptualized them mocking me from some far away island. I could see them tearing the flesh of my stolen son. His body blisters in the grueling heat as he cries for me. All I can do is watch the horror unfold in my mind. Hundreds of razor-sharp beaks pecking at his raspberry birthmark and devouring his eyes.

A bottle of Laphroaig cuts the nightmare short. I’m grateful for the first time in three days.

The next morning the crows returned. They watched me from the trees. Scotch on my breath, I grabbed the BB gun and made my way to the yard. I picked one of the parasites off the branch. Now the horde became agitated. I fired wildly as they dispersed. They were agile and dodged every shot. The birds ascended to the roof of the garage, which offered them momentary shelter. I retrieved a damaged ladder resting on the ground, placed it against the garage wall, and proceeded to climb.

An unsettling sight was awaiting my arrival. The crows stood like soldiers. Their eyes, like pools of midnight, stared through my skull. In my aggressive climb, I’d dropped the BB gun on the soil below. The closest bird was about a foot in front of me. I lunged forward grabbing the bird by its neck. It clawed frantically at my wrists, breaking the skin with its sharp claws and frantic spasms. With my free hand I palmed the birds head and ripped it off, like twisting the cap off a bottle. I watched as its hollow spine twitched in my hand. I tossed the severed head at the mob, howling wildly as they cawed back in trauma.

I felt the wooden rung of the ladder snap. Falling backwards my head hit the ground with a vicious thump—everything faded to black.

A cold breeze caused my eyes to slowly peel open. I found myself lying in my own bed, concluding Nyah must have brought me inside. I assumed she would have left me for the birds. Perhaps she still possesses a shred of affection for me. I got up to check the nursery.

Cracking open the door, I witnessed two empty bottles of dollar store wine resting on the floor, next to Nyah’s snoring body. There was dried vomit near her head, staining the grey carpet. I thumbed the tears from my bloodshot eyes and covered her with Atticus’s blanket.

I’d find a way to get our son back. To get Nyah back. It was 10pm. The throbbing in my head acted as a compass, guiding me back into the bedroom— and I slept.

A sharp crack, reminiscent of a wooden log being snapped in half, jolted me awake. I shot up in bed and noticed a humanoid figure perched on the dresser across the room. My heart pressed against my ribs as perspiration cloaked my body. I struggled to get up, like a rat in a glue trap.

“Who’s there?” I managed to utter in a shaky whisper.

Emerging from the shadows, the creature slowly entered the soft glow of the moonlight. There wasn’t enough scotch in the world to withdraw the horror from my memory bank.

The creature stood. Blood-soaked feathers covered what appeared to be a woman’s body. It had a torn breast, with an areola hanging from a string of skin. The abomination was littered with blisters and the smell of rot danced wildly throughout the room. I tried not to look at its face but failed. It resembled a crow donning a skinned human face as if it were a disguise. The skin was decayed and blotchy. The beak protruded from a rotting mouth with dark elastic lips. Then I saw its eyes...and recognized them. I threw up before shouting.

“Jesus Christ, Nyah!”

I awoke the next morning in a pool of sweat. It had been a horrible dream. My god, how sadistic and broken my mind must have been to conjure up a creature like that? Once the chills faded, I went to check the nursery.

The vomit and bottles were still there— no Nyah.

The kitchen, living room, dining room, and bathroom— no Nyah.

No note. Keys, bag, wallet, all accounted for.

Nyah was gone.

And so were the crows.

Time clumped together like brown modeling clay. I drank myself stupid, laughing wildly on the bedroom floor. My son, my wife, and my sanity have all passed from sight. What was there to do now but drown in a sea of failure and folly?

To be truly alone is a hideous feeling. I’d be forgotten. A fool left to rot in his place of madness. Eventually I drifted off.

The wicked hum of fluttering feathers filled my ears as I opened my eyes. The birds were back— but they weren’t outside. They had filled the ceiling above my head!

A black cloud, cawing hysterically, hovering over me. I got to my feet and grabbed the baseball bat I kept under the bed. They began to divebomb. The first bird was sent into orbit. I felt like Ken Griffey Jr. waiting on a fastball. Two more were swung on and hit, until the mob began to swarm me.

I found myself surrounded by a whirlwind of dark beaks, feathers, and sharp claws. I was trapped in the eye of the storm as the birds clawed and pecked at my flesh. They moved with unnatural speed, creating a vortex so violent that my feet began to lift from the ground.

I had no more fight.

No more strength.

“Take me!” I screamed.

The birds began drilling their way through my eye sockets and mouth. I felt my head filling with their bodies, expanding my skull, and causing it to burst.

***

The sun sizzled on an unusually hot December morning. I awoke to a world that seemed unfamiliar. A wide spectrum of colors overwhelmed my pupils. Four-color vision. I was high up looking out at the city. A birds eye view of the world.

Where was I? My bones felt hollow, and my arms were pushed back at my sides. I tried to put my hands in front of my face but was unsuccessful. Against the soles of my feet, I experienced a strange sensation. It was as if my feet had been replaced by my hands. I was gripping a wooden branch and standing on it at the same time.

After the confusion resolved— hysteria seeped in. Like ink spilled on a white rug. I tried to speak but only a shrill cawing echoed from my vocal cords. I jumped from the branch hurling myself towards the ground, waiting to kiss the concrete but instinct overtook. The arms that felt pressed back against my sides, began to flutter up and down. I was hovering above the ground seconds before impact and then soared towards the sky.

I alternated between periods of intense euphoria and sheer panic. How could this be possible? I was flying. Am I in heaven? Hell? The last thing I recalled was the attack from the birds, filling my skull to the point of detonation.

Recognizing my own home from the sky, I decided to land. Then I saw my reflection in the nursery window. Although I was able to comprehend the situation, my cognitive abilities were declining swiftly. I heard cawing and chirping behind me and noticed the crows were back, observing me, and it appeared that in some way—I had assimilated into the murder.

I couldn’t tell how many days had gone by; I had lost my humanity. The mornings were spent foraging for whatever I could find. Mostly city trash and insects. We roosted at night, huddled together in the trees, braving the winter winds. Any humans I encountered throughout the day would stick in my brain. I dreamt of their faces as I slept and never forgot them.

I cannot ascertain if I am contented or downhearted. I simply just exist. Empty, primal, and instinctual. Anything that has happened before I can’t recall. I’ve always just been a crow. We only live eight years, and leaving no legacy doesn’t bother me. I’m nothing.

It was colder than usual. The mob sat and watched as a new family was moving into a house that looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t be sure. Our gaze was fixed on a man and a woman laying a small child into a crib. They watched over him as he drifted into slumber.

Once they exited the room and turned off the lights, The group began to coo, caw, rattle, and click wildly. Amid the commotion, two birds, one large, and one small, entered my territory. They appeared visibly troubled.

As they got closer, I noticed a crescent moon shaped scratch on the underside of the larger crow’s beak. Looking down at the smaller crow beside it, there was a red mark resembling a blossoming raspberry, resting just below its left eye. My heart filled with warmth, and I could have sworn I felt a tear trickle from my solid black eye. They felt familiar—but I couldn’t be sure.