Chapter Two: Blackbird Singing
“I’m tired,” Vincent croaked, biting into the blackbird’s wing. He mangled the hollow bones underneath its feathers, cleaving them with his teeth. The blackbird had gotten too close; the tip of its beak had tapped the membrane of Vincent’s left eye. His central vision grew soft, distorted, and blurry.
“I’m tired.” Involuntarily said as he bit deeper. Vincent spat out blood and feathers.
“I’m tired,” he laughed, feeling a short sharp shock against his cheek.
A black mass fluttered in front of Vincent; two more whisked overhead. He stood, again the words “I’m tired” levitated from his cracked lips. As the dropped “…d” moved away, Vincent surged backward, knocking over the chair he had been affixed to.
The wood clattered on the concrete floor.
“Vincent!”
A door slammed open, then shut.
“Vincent!”
A whooping assault of sound. Vincent felt shoved, pinned, his back pressed against a rock-hard surface. The noise pelted him; he repeatedly repeated, “I’m tired,” his voice modulating in tone, speed, and volume.
Rain, he thought. I wish it were raining. The sound of it falling; swallows harshness, makes things softer. It patterns against the windows, a tapping of drops. Not always followed by the clap of thunder, which can break the dulling.
Snow, maybe. Yes, it is always quiet when it snows. Big, white constant drifting of snow. Cold enough that it coated everything. Yes, I wish it were snowing. Dead of night. It would cover the blackbirds, a glaze of white over their wings, chilling their breaths, cutting off their voices, preventing them from flying, freezing them, immobilizing them, until their innards iced over, their parasites in stasis, easily caught, necks twisted, my being able to gouge their eyes out, my hands…
His head dropped to his chin, eyelids closing. Vincent took in a breath for a count of five, held for four, then expelled for a count of eight, jaw fully extended.
Again.
“I’m tired.” Barely audible.
A lighter claw alit on his shoulder.
“I know, Vincent. I know,” a demur cackle, guiding him back, pushing him down onto the again upright chair. “I know. Would you open your eyes, please?”
He acknowledged this voice. Different.
“I’m tired, Maria.”
Picking up his head, his eyelids followed the trajectory. “Dr. Maria.” He nodded his head to the doorway.
“I sent…asked your lawyer to leave us for a few so we could speak. And yes, the guard as well.”
Vincent took it as truth.
“Vincent, she doesn’t know you.”
“She’s afraid.”
Maria put her arms on the table between them, nodding.
“Why do you think that?”
Moments filled the eight-by-eight room. The HVAC clicked off, taking the underscore of humming with it.
Vincent shrugged. Mimicking his doctor, Vincent placed his arms on the table. He felt his hands were sticky. Looking down, he saw they were dripping black-red.
“Why do you think she is afraid of you, Vincent?”
Fuck the city
Overblown, hyperactive concrete and stone
Greasy street food; greasier people
Racing around, step on or over
Searching for the bright lights
Eclipsed by the shadows
To hell with the city
Nearly everyone’s oppressed
In some misguided way
Bend your neck, never knees,
As the fight to make it
Truth ends in buckets of the kill.
Screw the city
As it screws with you
Power, status, held in slimy claws
There’s heartache in the streets
Trod upon with running shoes.
You deserve what you get
Obliterate the city
Turn off the lights
You can’t see the stars shine
Blinded eyes obfuscate
Nothing to see here; move along
Dwindle yourself; something is wrong.
Fuck the city
Obsessiveness and greed
Hatred and fear
Isolated in ignorance
Shriek your outrage
Bellow your unscripted song.
Tale Spinning 