Daddy's Little Bird
By Tipp Hex
Behind me the security gate slid shut for the last time and the hawk, as usual, was circling overhead. Locked and hidden away, head tilted, she would be peering through her veil of thinning blonde hair at that same hawk.
‘What do you make of it all, Doc?’
That question, asked long ago, remains.
‘What’s your name?’
Eventually, hesitantly, ‘Daddy's little bird.’
Three words. In twenty years, just three whispered words.
Discovered in her home, a wall of macabre art created from the guts of a mutilated budgerigar, the DNA tests showing its blood had been mixed with her father's.
The best guess was that she’d been about fourteen at the time. With no trace of her in any records, it’s difficult to tell. I photographed this art and, much later, showed it to her. Her head tilted and twitched bird-like as she stared. It was progress. I gave her paint, paper and brushes and she would reproduce her painting, her art, every day. Presenting each one as if it were her first.
In the end, medical, alongside my own psychological reports, offered enough mitigation for sliding a razor between her fingers and slicing open his throat.
Found standing outside, motionless, drenched in blood and staring into the sky, it hadn’t been hard to find where she’d been held.
I’ve kept her last painting. The angry colours reduced now to soft pastel show a kind of peace.
It’s enough. It's all there is.