Inside

The Birth

A young boy ran through woods skipping over fallen logs and mossy rocks with a pair of wide eyes and a bright smile on his face. He was chasing after an unseen warbler that called from the thick branches above. Its gentle flapping and cheerful song teased him.   Although the boy could have easily caught the bird, he wanted to see it soar with its beautiful yellow wings. It led him off the beaten trail and into what the boy hoped to be the start of a new adventure. He did not mind the cool, creek water splashing on his shoes or the earth dirtying his country clothes. The sights he saw brought wonders to his virgin eyes, and he wanted even more.

From dawn til dusk, he darted in and out of the pockets of sunshine never staying in the dark or the light for too long. Relentless, the boy tracked down the warbler through the every part of the woods in their little game. Exhausted as it was, the warbler finally gave up and rested on a stone in a clearing.  Having ran for hours,  the boy was also tired of their game of cat and mouse, and he wanted something more satisfying. With some effort, he broke through thicket and stumbled into the opening, but just as he was about to catch the bird, he heard a person call out.

"Hey! Tree-fucker!"

Instantly stopping in place, the little boy closed his eyes and waited.  How and when his torment started to follow were long forgotten, but he always knew how and when to assume the position.  When they called his name, he needed to stand still and straight while they struck him with a sharp branch or threw rocks at his bare legs.  They would surround him in a ring and passed him to one another like a toy until it broke.  There were rules to their game: the little boy needed to get back up quickly when pushed down, the boy did not deserve to wear his clothes in their game, the boy had to laugh along with the rest, and the boy needed to remember that it was all his fault.

As the footsteps kicked up dried leaves, the boy flinched and clutched his chest.  Even though the black and blue had faded long ago, he could still feel them tickling deep down.  A deep and heavy feeling pulled him downwards the bottom of the Earth, and nausea overtook him.  The world spun in a frenzied dance, and the boy began to tip.  Then, a rock struck him in the chest.  The boy doubled over and fell to the ground.

"I said 'Hey, Tree-fucker.'  Can't you hear me? Hello!"

His voice was instantly recognizable with puberty cracking his voice.  He was one of the smaller of the tormentors, always trying to prove himself by making new games for all of them to play.  His latest game involved pressing the freshly-tossed cigarettes he found onto the boy's skin.  The winner was the one who left the most intricate mark.   Without turning around, the little boy could see his tormentor's face with red hat and his crooked teeth leaking out spit.  The little boy thought it was funny that long ago he could have sworn they were friends and that he once owned a hat like that.  One day when they were both trapped in the ring of bullies, the crooked boy was given a chance to join them.  However, the memories were hazy after the crooked boy had kicked him in the temple without hesitation. 

"Hello Tree-fucker.  Hello.  Anyone in there?  Yoo-hoo!  Ay!  Say hello!" The crooked boy said while he roughly nudged the little boy's head.

The little boy gave a meek reply, "Hello."

Suddenly, the crooked boy slammed his fist into the little boy's jaw after yelling, "Who said you could talk?"  The little boy quickly got back into position while the crooked boy brought his pudgy face close to the little boy's.  A trickle of blood came from the little boy's upper lip and left a crimson snake on his chin.  The crooked boy looked in shock at the red stain on his fist.  The crooked boy looked at his hand and back to the little boy going back and forth in quick succession.  He quickly rubbed his knuckles on his shirt, and a dark red stained it.  Quickly, a second strike to the little boy's face followed."You made my hand dirty!  Now, you ruined my shirt!  Why did you do that?  You are a little savage!  Can't do anything without fucking something up!"

He pulled the little boy close grabbing him by collar, and the sound of threads ripping cut the air.  The little boy could see the oily surface of the crooked boy's turned-up lips and his large flat nose.  There was a gaping hole in his lips where the little boy could peek into the crooked boy's mouth.   They looked more like more like a scattering of rocks than actual teeth.  The smell of rotten vegetables poured out of the perpetual opening of his maw, souring the air.  The little boy looked away from the mouth and stayed away from the crooked eyes.

 Seeing as he will get no response from the little boy, the crooked boy looked for something with more life.   Hearing a tweet, the crooked boy perked up and turned to the warbler.  He picked up the rock the size of a ping-pong ball and eyed the bird with excitement.  The bird tweeted and hopped on the rock.  With a sinister smile growing on his face, the crooked boy cocked his hand and gripped the rock tightly. He let his arm spin into a blur while he gave commentary.  He made a story of pitching a winning throw and the fortune and fame that would follow.  After he imitated the cry of a crowd crying out in awe, he chucked the rock straight at the warbler.  Surprised, the warbler turned towards the two boys and tweeted one last time.  An explosion of yellow feathers erupted, and blood splattered onto the grass.  He let out a shrieking guffaw that sounded like a wild animal and yelled out, "And the crowd goes wild! Rahhh!  Rahhh!  Look at the splatter! Oh my god!  The splatter is everywhere!  The crowd loves it!  They love me!  Look at the blood everywhere!  Damn, how much blood was in that thing?  Look at that!"

As though struck with a heavy blow, little boy stayed quiet and stared quietly at the dead bird, letting tears roll down his face.  The crooked boy sucked in more air and continued to laugh until he saw the little boy and his stunned expression.  The crooked boy's grin fell, and he struck the boy across the face yelling, "Come on.  It's funny.  Laugh.  Here take this rock and smash it.  Do it.  Come on, I said laugh.  Laugh."

Thrusted forward, the little boy stumbled towards the bird.  Looking closely, the grass took on a sickly green hue and felt prickly and unfriendly.  Immediately, the air tasted stale and nipped harshly at the boy's cheeks.  The little boy could feel heavy breathing over his shoulder and drip of saliva.  It was warm and sticky.  In the center, the warbler twitched in a growing pool of its blood.  A red, wet hole tore through its body.  Deep down, the little boy knew that it would never fly again.  It opened its beak weakly, but no sound came out.  A sharp pain in the leg interrupted the little boy's thoughts.

A rock had hit his leg and landed at his feet.  The crooked boy gestured the little boy to pick it up while tapping his foot to show his impatience.  The little boy picked up the rock.  It felt strangely heavy for something so small.  The cold and rough surface felt uncomfortable and clumsy to the touch.  His knees shook as he struggled to lift it up.  The little boy raised the stone up like an offering to the sky and slammed it into the ground.  The little boy let out a cry as to block out everything else, but a little crack could be heard past the rock.

Clapping as he came, the crooked boy wrapped his arm around the little boy and laughed.  Stories of this event would be passed around at the schoolyard for the next day or so, and another similar story would take place to keep the boredom away.  The little boy would be recognized temporarily as something other than a toy until the warbler story grew stale and a the need for a new one would rise. 

Taking a hesitant step, the little boy turned back and looked at the dead warbler.  Then, he walked away.