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My little bird

mylittlebird

Por Flávio Marcus da Silva

The little bird is pecking my foot. He’s eating parts of my toe – its dry skin, the rotten nail –, he’s pecking it fast, destroying it. I feel his little movements, pecking, eating, scratching, cracking. It’s disturbing, but I keep my foot there for him.

He’s a little black bird with blue eyes and blue feathers on his head. He eats insects, vermins and rats, but when he finds an old foot like mine, with a lot of dry and smelly skin, he likes it. And I’m suffering, it’s not a good sensation, the crazy pecking. My eyes, my mouth, my nose are burning, my head is bleeding, a wound is bleeding on my head…

The bird is singing now, there’s blood all over his head, and he continues pecking, pecking and pecking, turning my toe into a ball of blooded meat – a meaty toe; my nail is already cracked, and a strong pain is all over it, a pain like having a burning knife slicing one’s leg or foot. It’s good. I’ve always wanted to feel this pain, it’s awesome.

It’s raining. It’s cold. I love rain and cold weather and cold people. I live alone here, no humans with me, only this bird, my bird. He’s black and blue. He’s black, but his head is blue and red like fire. He’s my only friend and he’s pecking my foot, my toe, and he loves it. He loves eating my flesh. He’s now eating my toe’s bone, and the pain is good, I love pain, I love feeling this horrible pain.

Meanwhile I read. I’m reading Crime and Punishment. And I drink wine, a Portuguese red wine, very dark and strong. Portugal is a good country, full of life, but it can be dark and sad too, sometimes: there are lots of cold people there, old men and women full of sadness, hopeless about life… Oh god, save me from this life…

Now I’m with the bird on my hand, on this table. He’s looking at me, his beck full of blood, covered with blood, his blue head covered with dark-red blood, his little belly full of my flesh and blood and dry skin and bones. He’s just finished eating my toe, I have no toe anymore. My eyes are burning, my nose is rotten, my head is pulsing… my life is failing… but I’m happy, I’m feeling good, very good.

I have no future, it’s cold and dark… I’ll die today, but I have to kill this bird first, he wants to die too, he’s my friend, my only friend, he can’t survive without me. I’m going to kill him right now. He’s looking at me and he’s happy, he’s asking “Kill me, kill me, please”. So I take him in my hand and I squeeze him until he turns into pure blood and feathers and bones… Arrrrgh… Fucking little shit!

Now it’s my turn. How? Hanging? I don’t have a rope here, just my gun, my pistol. That’s it. My pistol…

Goodbye, people! Goodbye everything! Adieu! C’est fini. Done. Nothingness… That’s what I want. Oh god…

BOOM!

Imagem: “Bird on Money” (1981), by Jean-Michel Basquiat (1960-1988)

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