Bird Bath

So, there I was. Staring out a broken window at complete and utter destruction. We counted to ten, again and again, until the bomb went off. I don’t know what’s worse, waiting for death on a ten-second clock, or trying to pretend everything is ok, as I wrapped my sister in my arms to shield her from my fear.  

We are alone now. Abandoned, orphaned, targeted. Over the hills we once frolicked playfully, now lies the bodies of our friends.  

Earlier that day, my mother told me that school closed. My father woke up early and cut the wires to our house, and closed all blinds except for my window.  

We were playing hide-and-seek, as instructed by my parents. Count to ten, they said. We will be back to find you. 10…9…8…7…over and over we went. Hiding in different spots, thinking we would be found soon.

Then it hit me. Earlier, I heard the school bells ring, with the sounds of screaming kids. I thought it was just the excitement of the neighbours down the street. I noticed the large trunk always sitting beside the front door, was no longer there. The rack that hung all the coats was now bare. With fire in my stomach, I told my sister to hide in the closet, and I would be right back. “Close the door”, I said. She smiled and nodded, thinking our sneakiness would be cause for laughter later.

I went to the front door, and tried to open it. I couldn’t. Furthermore, I tried all the locks, but there was something on the bottom of the door preventing me from opening it. I went to the kitchen. Silence. I pulled back the shades to look at the yard. Nothing. Triggered, I ran to my parents bedroom. Their room was a mess. Drawers emptied, mattresses up against a wall.  

I tried to look for a clue.

Knowing my sister was waiting, I went back to check on her. In the hallway on the way to the bedroom, I saw a blood stain. It was smeared on the wall. Had it been there long? A little further up, there was a handprint left smeared with dark oil. I put my face closer, the stench drew me back immediately. I know that smell from science class.  

I always carried suspicion of my mother. Her smile seemed to hide something terrifying. My father, he did not smile as much. He was hard on both the outside and the inside as far as I could tell.  

I decided to check on my sister. I opened the closet door, and she was asleep in a ball of blankets. Instinctually, I kissed her on the forehead, and closed the door again. “Sleep child”, I whispered.  

I went to the small television, and tried turning it on. No power. I went to the hallway and picked up the phone, no dial tone.  

Back in my room, I stared out the window to an open field. No one was playing anymore. The town sounded ill. I remember this happening only once before, when I was an only child, maybe five years old. They said they would be back, and they were. Upon returning, they grabbed propane and began a fire to cook me a meal. As a young child, I remember it as being fun and new to eat outside in a tent. They made my favourite meal, pork sides with broken bread. They gave me a sip of a strong tasting juice. I disliked it. They laughed, and gave me water to wash it down. I don’t remember anything else of that night. I do remember returning to school the next year, greeted by my teachers outside. They looked nervous, brought me into my class and sat me down in front. Asked if they could get me anything, tea, biscuits, anything. It was strange to receive this offer. I declined, and looked around at my classmates to see if they were offered the same surprising treat. They had their heads down, and hands folded over the lap. Ever since that day, I was treated well by my school, eventually my sister was too.  

I was taken out of my memory and back to reality by a bird hitting the window. I jumped back, noticing that it left a crack. My sister woke and opened the closet door. “Did they find us?”, she asked. She saw the window and her eyes grew ten times their size. “What did you do? You are going to be in big trouble when they find us.”

“A bird flew into it. I think it died.” I replied, solemnly.  

My sister started crying. I walked toward her and out my arm around her tiny body. “It’s ok, everything that is born has to die sometime.” Somehow, that made her feel better.  

“Let’s just keep counting to ten”, I said to distract her.  

10…9….8….

Suddenly, we heard helicopters outside. We ran to the window together and watched as the Heli dropped balls of fire on the ground. Bombs. It was far enough in the distance that we could not make out where on the ground the fire was happening. My sister said, “Just like in the video”.  

“What video?”, I replied. She went under her bed and grabbed a small device. She hit play. On it was a simulation of the helicopter that was outside. “Where did you get this?”, I asked.  

“Mother gave it to me. Told me to sell it one day if I got hungry and needed food.”

My circuits were working in overdrive. I wanted to cry, my heart was broken knowing that my parents are responsible for the destruction happening through my window. Another loud sound came from outside. It sounded like it was getting closer and closer. My sister and I kept counting to ten, and once we completed our round, another bomb would drop.  

After what felt like hours, the sounds stopped. We went back to the window to look outside. The cracked window matched the shattered background.  

I don’t think the bird was the only death today.  

I held my sister’s hand and took her back to the closet. We sat there until we both fell asleep again. When we woke up, it was dark. My sister cried for mother. To ease her pain, I took her to the kitchen, and found the small propane tank. I went to the cupboard and grabbed bread. I went to the cooler and found pork sides. In the cooler was a note, with a key.  

_“Continue the tradition, my child. This key leads you to the back, where there is a tent set up in the woods. Make your sister as many meals as you can, and we will be back to find you one day soon.”_

“Let’s go”, I said to my sister as I opened the door to the yard. There lie the dead bird. Right on the back porch step. “Can we bring him?”, my sister asked. 

I sighed, building an armour around my heart that would keep me alive for the next 20 years, and replied, “Yes, but only to throw in the fire.” She accepted, and carefully held that dead bird all the way to its demise.