Of Pigeons and Men.

Jess rolled another piece of bread into a hard pellet, placed it between thumb and forefinger and took aim. The shot was accurate and the startled pigeons sudden panic sent the whole flock into the air. Moments later, they returned to eating the crumbs as if nothing had happened.

“Stupid birds,” she said under her breath as she prepared another pellet.

“Why do you torment them?” 

She shrugged by way of reply to the man sitting alongside her on the park bench, adding listlessly, “I’m proving a point.”

“And the point being?”

She turned, annoyed yet glad he had spoken to her. He seemed unkempt, neither old nor young and he returned her gaze unflinchingly. Within the depths of his grey eyes, she thought she glimpsed an intelligence, some mischievousness perhaps. Was he flirting?

His clothes had the same air of misdirection; it wasn't entirley obvious if he was a tramp, thief or banker. She only knew she wanted him. Damn. She was crazy.

Turning back to the birds, she decided to dismiss him with an uninterested, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” and casually took aim at another pigeon.

He shook his head, got up, and walked away. She was glad. She didn’t want the empty space within her filled. Not yet. And anyway, she knew he’d be back. He was just another pigeon.

Yet he’d sat alongside her on the very day her mind roiled with what she had done. And he had turned up every day since. Sitting silently next to her, four days in a row.

Watching as he walked away, anger bubbled within her searching for release. Why? Because he had left? Because she had wanted him?

He seemed different from Bill. Was it possible to find someone again? So soon after her decision to escape her marriage? Oh no, she wasn’t about to drop her guard. Not for a long time, maybe never. He was just another damned pigeon she reminded herself. But still she wanted him.

It had been a week now since deciding it was time to do something about Bill. Freedom she decided, was just a word. The last time they’d had sex, Bill hadn’t made love, he'd just violated her. Smothering her face with his rough hands, making her choke while he pounded out his rage. She’d lost count of the number of times she struggled for air, suffocating in repeated near deaths night after night.

But she always survived. And afterwards he was always contrite; he’d no more idea about what drove him than she did. She’d lie staring at the shadows dancing on the bedroom ceiling, trying to make sense of things, his back cold against her. Then she would sleep and forget. Until next time.

The last time he nearly killed her, she decided she needed protection. Once she had the gun, things seemed better. It helped. She took it to her heart; stealing moments alone like a lover, secretly caressing its form for hours, loving what it could do for her. It was if, in her mind, it reciprocated her love and she came to love it, the form itself giving her satisfaction.

But Bill was now gone. And still the room stank of him. He was still there, in the fabric of the room, in the very air. Afterwards, she’d vomited into the toilet until her stomach was empty, slumping down onto the cold tiles in exhaustion. She’d kept the room locked after that, locking him inside. Yet the stench slithered out from under the door, through the very walls, creeping alongside and staying close,  forcing her back to the toilet to again and again empty her stomach. 

The park was her escape. And there she would stay, until she was so cold she was forced home, back to his stink. That was when he arrived, sitting next to her on the park bench. It was becoming a ritual. Would he be here again today? She began to hope so. As she took aim at yet another pigeon,  someone sat next to her. She knew who it was.

“So what is your point?” he said flatly, continueing their previous converstaion as if unconcerned if she answered him or not.

Excitement replaced the anger within her. He’d come back, she always knew he would.

She flicked another pellet and again the birds took to panicked flight. Together they watched the flock settle and return to feed. Only then did she turn to him.

“They don’t get the hint.”

He shrugged. “They’re driven.”

“Oh? And you’re not?”

“No.”

She watched him from the corner of her eye. He hadn’t turned towards her when he spoke.

“Would you like to fuck me?”

That made him turn, his eyes wide.

“Well? Would you?” she repeated.

Those deceptive grey eyes became serious. “You’ve been crying.”

Turning away from his gaze, she chose another pigeon to shoot. She could feel that space inside her craving fulfillment, yet the virtual space between them was closing too fast.

She found her target, a particularly ugly and fat bird, its feathers the colour of leaden skies.

“Just fuck off,” she told him, letting loose her shot.

As the birds rose so did he, just as she commanded, and he left. Why had she said that? He’ll be back, she thought. But he wasn’t. Not the next day, nor the next.

Her nights become increasingly empty, as dead as an abandoned carnival and with the same air of menace. She should be happy; she was free of him after all. But the stench followed her around like a bad dream. Perhaps it was more in her head. Yes, she was crazy.

She packed extra wet towels around the bottom of the door to his room, but still the smell leaked through.

‘It’s in my head. I’m going mad,’ she whispered into the toilet, her throat raw from stomach acid as she threw up once again.

Her retreat was the park, and, just as she had begun to forget him, he returned, sitting alongside her, watching the pigeons. Neither spoke for a long while, then he said a single word:

“Yes.”

She continued to ignore him for a while, patiently rolling a piece of bread into a small, hard ball, another pellet. She knew what he meant of course, but she wanted to hear him beg.

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes, I’d like to fuck you.”

“Oh, that.” She let the silence build for a while, then said, “You’re just like them, aren’t you?” She moved her arm in a semi-circle, indicating the flock of feeding birds at their feet. “You’ve just proved my point. Now you know why I do this.”

She reached forward, watching as the greedy birds came closer. Her target chosen, she flicked the pellet, the birds scattered and just as quickly returned.

“See? Mindlessly driven. Just like men.”

He didn’t respond, but she felt the virtual space had closed to nothing between them. Now another emptiness needed filling.

“So, lets go fuck,” she said lightly, “my place, around the corner.” And with that she rose and began walking away, silencing any further conversation.

Once inside they took each other quickly. She noted that he was careful, tender, so unlike Bill. And she surprised herself by making small mewing noises as she came. She never did that. And not only  once, but maybe three times. She was astonished, not only at her repeated climaxes but at her voiced passion. Afterwards, there was another surprise. He hadn’t turned away. Instead, he held her, stroking her. Perhaps, the voice in her head whispered, he has a good heart. Perhars. But that thought annoyed her.

“You bastard … you made love to me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He gave a small shrug. “I don’t know. Just something about you. It's like you’re lost. You just made me want to, well, love you.”

She snuggled close to him, his fingertips drawing small circles on her back. She shivered.

“Are you cold?”

“No,” she murmured, “it’s just that, I haven’t been held this way for so long.”

Then she kissed him, letting her lips taste the sweat of his passion, feeling a tenderness inside herself she had thought buried forever. Maybe he was different. His lips found hers and she surrendered, devouring him, as he took her again.

Afterwards they both stared at the ceiling, at a loss, the silence a physical thing as words took shape then dissolved unspoken in the air above them.

Inevitably, other senses began to intrude on their reverie. He wrinkled his nose.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, but what is that smell? Have you been burning something?”

“No, it's not burning …” she said, a little too quickly, a brittle laugh escaping her lips.

“Burnt. I got rid of my past life, my memories, my husband, everything. They're all gone. I’m free as a bird.”

What was she saying? She felt dizzy, light headed. Free? She had the overwhelming urge to tell him everything. With the floodgates open, she recounted her decade of lost hope and illusion. The early tenderness of Bill, how that was then replaced by control, fear and abuse. Then, of her decision to escape, to remove all trace of her past life.

He listened, his grey eyes never leaving hers as she poured out her distress. As she talked, she noticed an unease replace the sympathy within those eyes.

“What’s the matter?”

He looked away, looking unsure how to continue.

“This room, his office, the room where you burnt all your memories, can I see it?”

A shadow of panic flickered across her face. “No.” She had said too much. “No, it’s private.”

“Why won’t you show me? Why? What have you really done?”

Without waiting for her reply, he began climbing the stairs towards the source of the smell, pulling away the damp towels stuffed against the bottom of the door. But it was locked.

“That room’s private, you have no right to go in there!” She shouted from behind him.

Following him, she had paused only to collect her precious comforter, tucked away secretly in a cabinet close to the stairs.

It seemed as if Bill had returned, standing in front of her, his naked back tensed, ready to lash and strike.

She watched as he threw himself at the door, bursting it open. At the sound of splintering wood, she slowed, taking each step one at a time until she stood poised at the threshold of the room. Inside, in that gloom and stench, she listened as he threw up, the vomit splashing onto the wooden floor. 

In the darkness, she watched as his face turned towards her. The light from the open door stole into the room like an accusatory finger pointing towards the horror inside. Wet vomit glistened on his naked body, dripping thickly down his chest and began pooling around his feet.

Eyes, wide, round and unfocused, he glared at her as she stood in the doorway, blocking his exit. Then his gaze dropped to what she held in her hands. 

"No, don't..." he started to say, but she cut him off.

“Why couldn’t you take the hint?" Her voice trembled. "Why did you keep coming back? I tried to push you away but you wouldn’t listen, I told you my room is private, why don’t you ever listen? Why don’t you fucking men ever listen?” Her voice began rising in building hysteria. “I thought, I thought, maybe you might be different! But I was wrong, you’re not, you’re just like Bill. You do what you like, take what you want. Like all of them, just like the fucking pigeons!”

She raised her precious comforter higher, pressing the metal of the gun in another caress, and squeezed the trigger.

The flash from the gun froze the scene in her mind; the pleading outstretched hands, the last uncomprehending expression, the rotting corpse of Bill by his feet covered in the charred remains of half-burnt photographs.

She never heard the gun's retort, but the scene burnt itself onto her retina, to be revisited in nightmares and denied in wakefulness.

The door inside her mind needed closing. She watched as he writhed in a macarbre dance amid the vomit, his life-blood emptying, adding to the carnage and filth. She pulled the door closed. The lock was broken, but the door stayed shut. She pushed more wet blankets into place. The smell would be worse this time.

She had to get back to feed the pigeons. She wondered who would sit with her next time. There would always be someone. They were driven. Maybe next time it would work. And if it didn’t? She smiled secretly as she gathered up the bread. Well if it didn’t, she always had her comforter. She knew that it, at least, loved her. It had proved that.

It would never let her down.

Jess rolled another piece of bread into a pellet and took aim as the pigeons crowded around her.

“Stupid birds.” she muttered, rocking slowly back and forth, alone on her park bench.