I perch here, hunched over, and observe from this dried blackened branch that has hardly
enough life to carry my own weight. I peer between the glare of the sunrays, at the thin clouds that taste of sand and at the smoke rising from the cracked grounds. I sit huddled within my own body, that wraps around me like feathered pillows. And I hold my breath inside this frozen posture, in the boiling cauldron in my chest. Or perhaps, I was holding back something else. Heat pours down across the land, withering the last of the trees, shading them with amber hues. For as long as I recall, I’ve never once smelt life in this space that had been long infused with the scent of charred animals, decayed corpses, or hopeless souls. I’ve never heard anything more than a wailing cry of something being ripped open wide. This desolate land was as still as a paused frame, an obituary photo. The only shifting thing here, was the sand in the winds that desperately whispers life into the bleak air. But no life was allowed here. And I would know.
For I was the Death Bird.
I sit stiffly on the same few towering trees each time, only letting my eyes and mind
wander. I search for my prey.
Sometimes I see a deer, or an antelope. I see animals that have lived through their entire
lives, or cubs that have lost their ways abandoned to the dangers of the wild. I see death caused by brutality of the food chain. Carnivorous lions pouncing on innocent infants. Or themselves dying from hunger. I see death across every species of any age, and I have seen them every single day over, and over, and over again. And I wonder what any of this meant.
Why do we live just to die? And why do I, the Death Bird, only live if others die?
So today too I sit by my splintering branch, envying others like me, who fly in wakes. With their talons out on display, their wings angled like sharp corners of a paper plane, and with their chins lifted towards the Sun. How could a Death Bird ever dare to have this much pride? When our sole duty was to consume carcasses of the dead. And with every meal, learn everything about the creatures we devour.
While my mind searches for something deeper within my fate, I see something. I spot a rare creature. One that had four limbs but stood on two, with hardly enough fur to coat the bare-burning skin beneath it, and eyes so deep as if it knows the same things I do, or perhaps more. It was a beautiful creature. Beautifully dead.
I scan the skies for other Death Birds.
Clear.
I flutter my wings and pull my neck from within my brown-body, stretching into
something twice the size as before. My wings span out like blades, and I flash my beak to the air. I propel myself into flight. I feel the cold and hot wind caress me. I am liberated and mortified.
As I fly in closer, the body of this creature takes form. It wasn’t attacked by the wild nor
dried by the sun. It was as soft as newborns, smooth skin in place of fur. I land above it.
Carefully I nibble on this meat, afraid to rupture something so fragile. I begin somewhere along the chest. The skin tears off easily, like a thin sheet of egg whites. I weave the rest of the flesh with my claws, through the oozing crimsons. This being reeks of death when its corpse looks so alive.
I finally see this red orb in the middle of the chest, beneath broken bones, stored like
treasure. I eat, my feast silent, with the only sounds being that of my gnawing of this soft flesh. I carefully swallow. And suddenly, I feel a shock run through my body, like being stung with cacti spines. Then, memories of this creature’s life flash before me. It strikes me with a heavy swing. I almost screech in agony. But I hold myself back. This taste was something I had never tasted before; this feeling was unlike any other. This is mine alone. And I need more.
I continue in strained efforts to ingest more. And with each bite, something in me sinks heavier and I am nauseous. The memories I see are so foreign and so fresh, that I cannot stop. The blood tastes too sweet, yet too bitter, yet not enough of both. I frantically shred the rest of this creature, my teeth gnashing against its bones. I peel off every strand of left-over muscle and fat and blood, letting it overflow me. My eyes dilate, my heart beats fast. I do not understand this feeling. I then take a step back from my prey, my body trembling. A flurry of this creature’s life strings together in my mind.
This creature lived and slept in a strange nest that seemed almost a cage, tightly
squeezing it to a corner. But this creature sat in there willingly on most days, in its home that
seemed to suffocate it. But this creature’s home was different. It was not plain or empty, instead lit with an array of colours and lights with creatures pushing past like sandstorms. There were so many of them. So much life. One that I had desired for my own home.
It spent most of its time pondering on its reason to live, desperately looking for
fulfilment. It did so many things that I would never understand, created so many things that it
would never be proud of, and did so much more than survive. Other creatures I’d devoured, have only lived to exist. Yet I watch this creature smile and laugh so hard as if there was something more to being here. It desired for something so hard; it shook with a fervent passion even starved cougars do not have.
It did not hunt, it did not prey, and it did not fear its death. It lived as if its life was worth anything and everything. I wonder how it had found a life this way. I envy it more than my kind that were proud of their existence. I want to be capable of something more that I was built for. But how could a being ever have any more worth than staying alive? How would we even desire for more?
I adore this creature briefly. Before something cold and heavy fills into my lungs. This
land it lived in felt awfully cold. This creature looked miserable. A type of misery I had never
seen before in any other creatures’ past. It had something deeper than a frown, and an expression more strained that fear, and a silence that was far quieter than fatigue, hunger, or thirst. And a happiness that was more desolate than anything I have seen.
I see it cooped in its nest. Staring at the walls, much like me. It yearns for something
greater and despairs over things beyond what I can comprehend. It chased its family away and scratched its nest into a tumbleweed. It did not breathe the air that had been made for it. Or eat the animals that had been killed for it. With its desires for defying what it was made for, it allows itself to rot before it has died. The only time I had seen a frozen animal was when it played dead or had already died. I wonder which of the two this attempts to do.
But either way, it spent over a year like this. And one day it stood on its two weakened
limbs. It took nothing but its skeleton-eyes and came here. It stood staring at the sky. And after a while, it smiled. It was a different smile once again, that I do not understand. And it laid down on the sand falling asleep with peace, and it knew it was going to die here.
None of my meals have wished for their end. Yet this creature, after desperately trying to
live its entire life, chose voluntarily to be devoured by something like me. I feel a stone wedged in my throat, and this heat in my intestines, my mouth turns sour, and yet my eyes are light, and my chest feels emptied. I feel this creature. But I do not understand it. I end my meal. And fly away as nightfall approaches. I go back and perch on my tree. I sit there for the rest of the week, remembering this taste. I ponder, if I desire for more than life, would I desire death as well? Was I only made to be a Death Bird? Or would I be worth anything more?
I was not sure. But sitting here, hunched into my chest, I know I will never eat anything
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