bitter onto her kitchen floor and her hands stroke the normality of the lino through it, leaving trails in her own black bile. The rook upstairs goes RATATATAT, and she looks through the dirty mirror on the kitchen wall and gasps. Not at the man who had darkened her doorway, who has since vanished from the scene, nor at the nail-less tips of her bloody fingers, nor at the whites of her eyes now a deep blood red, but at her belly, distended and swollen, and at the claw marks and rivers of blood that streak her inner thighs.
THE READ LETTER
Dear Veronica,
I know I’m not supposed to contact you at the moment, or anyone from work for that matter, and I’ve tried, really I have, but things aren’t good here. My birds, they’re all gone. All gone. All except for Him, and He’s very angry. I think He’s done something to me, I don’t know… I don’t know but I’m scared. I’m scared and I need a friend Veronica. Please be my friend Veronica. Please.
Please.
There are things I need to say to you and they can’t wait.
I know, you see? I know what you’ve been doing. Down there in HR.
And if you don’t come I’ll tell.
I’ll tell everyone.
11:30 pm.
Come to the back door.
Don’t bring the car.
All my love.
I miss you.
Angela
x
A BURNING BIRD
She was eleven when she killed them. Three years to the day after I left her alone in that pile of bricks and secrets. They kept her in the attic, between boards and felt. Between bags and boxes. A girl in storage. Early mornings, late nights. Cleaning and cooking around car parts and canisters. Scrubbing away her own evidence. That was her life. She was nothing to nobody, even then, but she had her birds. She always had her birds. They came to her through a gap in the eaves, drawn in by the tune she whistled into the wind. A tune I taught her. A tune my mother taught me…
…alouette allo, allouette. Allouette…
The hole in the wall brought her the stinging winter but it also brought her company, and the birds took refuge from the storm outside, perched around her in their uneasy alliance. Her uncles worked in the yard behind the house, cutting cars in half, grinding and welding in a spray of sparks and oil. They never left that house and when she was there, she was theirs.
After school it was always the same. They tied her to the kitchen table and stripped her and struck her and shattered her teeth for the things she hadn’t done, and for things she had. I felt every blow. Every touch. Down here. Down there. And behind the blows, behind the crack of the whip, she heard angry wings beat the air and on it she smelled petrol and revenge.
“You ugly little bitch. You ugly little burd gurl”. Slack and northern. Words kept by time.
Months went by and her child’s mind made a plan. She would do it on a Saturday morning. They drank the most on Friday nights and wouldn’t wake until noon, all angry and numb. She would go into town early, like she did every Saturday and get them their bacon and tobacco but she would take a bird. Her most loyal, the one that perched on her finger, and who always came home.
It was the night before. She had cleaned the kitchen before bed, arranging cups and saucers and exhausts and ratchets on the worktops, and lining their petrol canisters up along the wall in the way they told her she ought to in this house of cog and oil. They had fallen asleep in their armchairs like they always did, empty beer cans strewn across the threadbare carpet, oily men with dirty hearts. They looked so small in their unconsciousness. Vulnerable, with chins as weak as their desires, and for a moment she felt pity; stood in the room between them, dim light from the fading fire licking her side. Then she remembered her broken jaw and her eyes raged red in the dark, pure with an ancient hatred. A shadow grew out of her and formed on the ceiling above, like a bird
THE READ LETTER
Dear Veronica,
I know I’m not supposed to contact you at the moment, or anyone from work for that matter, and I’ve tried, really I have, but things aren’t good here. My birds, they’re all gone. All gone. All except for Him, and He’s very angry. I think He’s done something to me, I don’t know… I don’t know but I’m scared. I’m scared and I need a friend Veronica. Please be my friend Veronica. Please.
Please.
There are things I need to say to you and they can’t wait.
I know, you see? I know what you’ve been doing. Down there in HR.
And if you don’t come I’ll tell.
I’ll tell everyone.
11:30 pm.
Come to the back door.
Don’t bring the car.
All my love.
I miss you.
Angela
x
A BURNING BIRD
She was eleven when she killed them. Three years to the day after I left her alone in that pile of bricks and secrets. They kept her in the attic, between boards and felt. Between bags and boxes. A girl in storage. Early mornings, late nights. Cleaning and cooking around car parts and canisters. Scrubbing away her own evidence. That was her life. She was nothing to nobody, even then, but she had her birds. She always had her birds. They came to her through a gap in the eaves, drawn in by the tune she whistled into the wind. A tune I taught her. A tune my mother taught me…
…alouette allo, allouette. Allouette…
The hole in the wall brought her the stinging winter but it also brought her company, and the birds took refuge from the storm outside, perched around her in their uneasy alliance. Her uncles worked in the yard behind the house, cutting cars in half, grinding and welding in a spray of sparks and oil. They never left that house and when she was there, she was theirs.
After school it was always the same. They tied her to the kitchen table and stripped her and struck her and shattered her teeth for the things she hadn’t done, and for things she had. I felt every blow. Every touch. Down here. Down there. And behind the blows, behind the crack of the whip, she heard angry wings beat the air and on it she smelled petrol and revenge.
“You ugly little bitch. You ugly little burd gurl”. Slack and northern. Words kept by time.
Months went by and her child’s mind made a plan. She would do it on a Saturday morning. They drank the most on Friday nights and wouldn’t wake until noon, all angry and numb. She would go into town early, like she did every Saturday and get them their bacon and tobacco but she would take a bird. Her most loyal, the one that perched on her finger, and who always came home.
It was the night before. She had cleaned the kitchen before bed, arranging cups and saucers and exhausts and ratchets on the worktops, and lining their petrol canisters up along the wall in the way they told her she ought to in this house of cog and oil. They had fallen asleep in their armchairs like they always did, empty beer cans strewn across the threadbare carpet, oily men with dirty hearts. They looked so small in their unconsciousness. Vulnerable, with chins as weak as their desires, and for a moment she felt pity; stood in the room between them, dim light from the fading fire licking her side. Then she remembered her broken jaw and her eyes raged red in the dark, pure with an ancient hatred. A shadow grew out of her and formed on the ceiling above, like a bird
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