The Bringer of Sorrow in Happy Ways

The Bringer of Sorrow in Happy Ways

Bird by Samantha R. Wollonzein

I stared at the trees, solemnly, watching the bright moon pass through the leaves. It’s fingers of light dappled my face, and yet, I felt no light. Wind ruffled the leaves, making them whisper to each other, seeming to mock an unknown, yet obvious, thing. I still laid in the patch of soft, wet grass, letting the dew wetten my clothes to the point it looked like I had bathed in my own wear.

I let out a sigh, then sat up, letting my weight rest on my elbows. The oak trees that surrounded me in the clearing seemed to lean closer, letting the shadows drape over my body. I sighed once again, then turned my attention to the one thing I could hear besides the gossip and whispers of leaves and a soft rumble of the road about half a mile away.

A coo of a bird had resounded through the quiet night, and I pinpointed the sound to a black bird, with little grey feet and an innocent, small beak, which was stained with red berries. The hint of red glimpsed of the eyes of the creature. I shuddered once, then listened to the coos again.

The soft, happy song drifted through the trees and the moonlight and the area around me, and lifted my spirits once again. The ringing noise of the bird’s song tickled my ears, and I smiled for a split second.

I realized, soon, that happiness was a thing of the past. I had fallen into it’s taunting, fake arms once again.

The darkness seemed to consume me as I opened my mind to reality, and yet, I still saw the light around me, the fake, psychotic, open-armed light that called out to me with failure time and time again. The song of the bird turned to a different tone, a dark, little, creepy tone. I opened my eyes, shocked, as the black bird’s twisted song erupted into the night.

I slumped back down on the ground. I knew it was all fake. All of it. All fake.

I looked at the bird once more to see the redness on the beak darken and become simply sinister in my mind.

I saw it drape around the trees, and the ground.

On my chest.

And on the knife in my hand.