There's no going back now. Sooner or later I have to face what's behind door number one. Sooner, as it turns out. The door opens, releasing the heavy stench of disruption. There's death in the air, but something else as well. Wilful disruption. It takes my breath away. I last smelled me some of this when I witnessed a duck getting shot out of the air. A crack and a screach and an empty space, that was it. It plummeted down to its death. No one ever came to get it. It just lay there to rot for days.
It seemed so useless.
'I dumped the car,' hisses a familiar voice. 'The rest is on you. This was your idea in the first place.'
O Lordie, I done got myself in some trouble now! I hardly noticed the humans storming out of the room,. It's her, all up in tatters again. The guy I saw hiding earlier is right behind her. They take no heed of me, however, even if I am right here in plain view. Humans! Too blind to see a bird on the banisters. If I am ignored one more time today, I 'll start wondering if I'm really here.
'What? You can't put this on me, Marguerite! How could I've known he'd put up a fight! For all I been told he was an easygoing sorta fella.'
They continue their conversation out of both eyesight and earshot, which grants me the once in a lifetime opportunity to sneak a peek in that room. After all, she don't looks like she needs my protection, so I am a free agent again. I can come and go as I please. Plus, they left the door of that mysterious room ajar, almost as an invitation for me to see how the land lies.
In the room time itself seems to have thickened. It has become a robust layer of impossibilities, trapping whoever enters. There's nothing much else to see here, 'cept for the sight that draws my eyes as soon as I set foot in this place. A man lies slumped forward over the table, face down in a pool of blood. He must've been here for right some time; the trickles of blood that made it over the edge of the table have all but dried up on the floor. Carefully, I wing in closer. His head is an indiscriminate mass, his facial expression frozen in a last gasp of incomprehension. To me, he could be anybody. Only by his telltale colors do I recognize him as the man called Pentecost. Fluttered around him on the table are pictures of him and her in flagrante.They have been captured in all kinds of poses. The only constants are the artificial light, casting a gloom of sickness over their bodies and his face being in full view in almost every shot. Looks like she managed to get him to a motel after all. For the rest, I cannot fathom what has been going on here. O, sure, I see the culprit. It's hard to miss the bloodied poker lying by his feet. But as to the how and the who and the why – I guess these questions are to big for a birdbrain like mine.
Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4
Birds-eye, part 5
Birds-eye, part 6
Birds-eye, part 7
Birds-eye, part 8
Birds-eye, part 9
Birds-eye, part 10
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