Blood & Feathers

A man's cat brings him an unwelcome surprise. A meditation on how not making a choice is it's own choice and what that means.

Short horror and science fiction stories, narrated by the author. If you'd like to see more, consider subscribing to my Substack at areldridge.substack.com.

Transcript

You stared at the dead pigeon for a few seconds. It’s head was ripped clean off. Who in their godless mind would do such a thing?

Perhaps we should go back.

It had been a long day, serving customers at TC Faber, a local goods-and-electronics chain at the low ebb of a decades long decline. The managers stalked the hallways with hunted faces, snapping at the first sign of lounging, which in an environment where the average staff to customer ratio at any given time is five-to-one is almost expected. A body is perpetually bathed in that itchy feeling well-known to those in retail and hospitality: of having to do something and yet having nothing to do.

But now you were home, looking to relax and play gory video games to turn off your mind for a few hours before going to bed and ultimately dragging yourself back to the labour mill that was your job.

As you retrieved your key, you observed a crumpled mass of grey and red on the ground. At first you thought someone had balled up some old socks and left them at your door but as you look closer you realised with revulsion that the little mound was biological in nature. Enter decapitated pigeon. Its neck still trailed sinews of muscle and ligament, red and white and grey and viscid-looking. The head itself was nowhere to be seen.

With a retching sound emanating from the back of your throat you looked away sharply, like you were dodging a blow, cracked the door with your key and entered into your apartment. You did not have the mental spoons to deal with this right now.

As you walked in, you observed Hercules, the big, rangy tabby who had one day decided to make your home his, resting on the ottoman next to your armchair. He had free reign of the house and would come and go as he pleased. Both you and your girlfriend had concerns about him hunting the local native wildlife but it seemed crueller to keep him cooped up when he had already tasted the fruit of knowledge that was outdoor living. Hercules had the casual killing instinct that all felines possess but that becomes more refined and deadly in the streetwise that have long since learned to avoid headlights.

Now, the chickens, as it were, had come home to roost.

With energy dredged from the depths of the guilt you now felt for your cat having freshly eviscerated an innocent creature, you groaned and went to retrieve the dustpan and brush.

You opened the door once again, watching carefully for Hercules. As your eyes traced back to the downed creature in the hall, you saw that you had been been mistaken. It was bloody alright, but the little bird was far from decapitated. It wasn’t even dead. A tangled mess of plumage on its left wing snaked out a trail of blood and feathers that meandered it’s way to the door and possibly beyond. Weird that you hadn’t noticed that before.

Now, it was huddling in the corner for protection because it could no longer fly. This creature had nowhere to go and nothing to do except sit here and wait for a cruel and likely protracted death.

The pathetic creature looked at you, side eyed in that way that prey animals do and you felt the weight of hundreds of years of betrayed domesticity in those eyes. Pigeons were bred to be mail carriers and companions. That is until they were cast aside for more efficient methods of communication and solace.

You squatted down next to it, muttering sweet, unintelligible phrases. You imagined that it would have liked to be helped but was now so mauled and broken that it might not have even been capable of recognizing that offer. You reached out, in the way one does to mollify a small animal. The pigeon backed up, keeping it eye fixed and burying itself deeper into the corner.

Realising there was only one thing you could do, you sighed, stood and opened the door.

You collected the small sky blue plastic box, the beat up one you generally used for laundry and one of the ripped and dishevelled red towels you had not used in years. You layered the towel in the box and took it out to the lobby. The pigeon shuffled away from you, so you merely crouched down, box in hand and laid it down so that it was accessible. You could at least give it a comfortable death if not a dignified one.

You noticed there was some stale bread there and something about the idea that the pigeon had brought it’s food with it to die broke your heart a little. You left the box, put the bread in it and headed back inside.

You settled yourself in the armchair once again, within patting distance of your cat.

“Did you bring us a gift, Herc?” you said and scratched the little triangle of fur between his ears. “That was very naughty.” But the tone of your voice was more sad than annoyed.

As though sensing your reticence, he rose from his croissant-curled shape, stretched, yawned and made his way to the front door. He looked back at you, imperiously, then pawed the door to really make his point.

“Not tonight,” you said. “Tonight you can sleep in here with us.” You turned back to the TV and sat down, flicking on the PS5. As you scrolled your way through some mind-numbing Metroidvania that you didn’t really enjoy but effectively passed the time, you thought about the pigeon.

It was clear that it would not survive. A bird with a broken wing is a dead thing walking. You could call the Wildlife Association, you supposed, but what would they do? They probably only took in native birds, not scruffy little pigeons. The kindest thing to do would be to brick it. Put it out of its misery in one swoop. Or you could let Hercules at it. Do your dirty work for you.

But even as the thought crossed your mind, you knew you didn’t have the heart for either option and you certainly didn’t have the stomach to clean it up. You grimaced at the thought. Grisly. The cat continued to watch you from the door, as if to say, “Come on, Jack. I’ll make it quick. It won’t even see me.”

You thought of what your girlfriend would say. How her face would crumple in sorrow and empathy for the ruined little thing. “It’s just a little guy, he’s just a baby! We should do something.”

You shook your head. You felt powerless. How was the creature out there so untenable, the problem so monstrous? There was a phrase for this situation, you realised. Tragedy of the Commons, it was called. Because it was everyone’s problem, nobody would do anything.

After a minute, Hercules sauntered back from the door. He lay back down on the ottoman, gave you a last contemptuous glance — pure cat venom —and appeared to go back to sleep.

After a half an hour, you needed to use the toilet. When you returned, you had just enough time to see Hercules nosing the bottom of the heavy tilt-angle window up. You didn’t name him Hercules for no reason.

“Hey!” you yelled but the tomcat had already melted into the night. You felt sure he would find the bird and kill it, probably making a mess in the common area at that.

You considered stopping him. You really thought about bringing the bird inside for a second, didn’t you? There were options, choices. There were Facebook groups. Internet message boards. Someone would have taken it in.

But if you’re honest with yourself, a part of you was relieved. The choice had been made for you. What would you have done? Brought the fucking thing in and nursed it back to health? Don’t be stupid. You could still have at least shooed the poor creature out of the lobby. But you were too cowardly even for that. Instead, you settled down in your armchair and slew some more flying skulls.

It was long past midnight when you realised that Hercules had not yet returned. Abnormal behaviour for him. Even when off on his nightly sojourns, he was rarely gone more than an hour, if only returning to be fed. Maybe he had eaten. Gingerly, you looked out through the peep hole to see if the tiles were a bloody mess, more so than they already were that is. They were not. They blood and box were gone. The pigeon too.

You frowned. Perhaps one of the neighbours had cleaned it up. That was a best case; some bleeding heart had taken the bird, put it in the box and put it somewhere safe.

This situation was doubtful though. More likely Hercules had taken it and someone had thrown out the box. Herc knew where the bird was, had almost certainly put it there himself as a gift for you in the first place. The frustrating miscommunication of species, our love languages contradicting and getting tangled up.

All the same, something did not feel right. You walked outside, your phone light ameliorating a small patch of darkness in front of you as you went. Within feet of your apartment, the true dark that the lobby’s dim bulb would not penetrate, you stepped in something.

It was something wet and squishy and yet still viscous. Your heart plummeted before you even consciously realised what had happened. Herc had gotten the pigeon. Fucking cat. Shining your light down, though, what you saw was infinitely worse.

The wet squishiness is not a disembowel bird. It was the body of your tabby cat.

Hercules had been brutalised. His head was smashed like a melon and his body ripped open from stomach to throat, the gore and viscera splayed across the pavement like a painter’s brushstroke. You could even make out the smooth rubbery lines of his intestines. Your light revealed a dark stain on the fading red brick. It was as if he had been slammed, crushed against the wall.

You immediately vomited, your gorge shooting up and forcing out the semi-liquidated food. The sick came out fast and unbidden. The taste of bile and half-digested pasta salad cloyed to your the back of your throat. Good God, Hercules. Little guy. What had happened? You bent down for a closer look and as the light swayed up queasily in the blackness you saw the pale blue box, overturned and outside the door. From the light reflected off the its inside, you could make out the beady black eyes of the pigeon.

Except it was not two eyes anymore. There were six now. Three sets.

In a vulgar synchrony the necks bulged their way out of the box, twisted and squirmed out of it like some kind of ancient and awful beast. Three necks. Six eyes. There were still feathers.

I still looked like a pigeon but I would not for long.

Bigger than a cat and far crueller, I had been stretched. Contorted into something that you had never seen. And as claws, talons, extended out of the box too, equally distended and razor sharp, you began to scream.