Page 17 of Vicious Behaviors

“I want…you to…save him,” she answers on a strangled sob. “Can you save him, Mar?”

“I can try.” I nod, wiping the tear-soaked strands of her light blonde hair away from her face.

Her tiny shoulders relax somewhat, as though that one gesture lifted the weight of the world off her shoulders. Then, ever so gently, she places the dying sparrow in my palms with heartbreaking tenderness.

“Thank you,” she breathes.

I smile again, though I feel my chest becoming tighter now.

“For this to work, I need a favor from you, too.”

“Anything,” she replies quickly.

“Good. I need you to run inside and grab some towels. Soak one in warm water. Just not too hot, okay? Go to the kitchen and ask Lourdes or Stella for help, then bring it to me so we can warm this little guy up.”

“Okay!” she beams, relief and gratitude brightening her face.

“Go on now. Hurry.”

She promptly jumps to her feet and races back into the house.

I watch her disappear, knowing I have only a couple of minutes to act before her return. I glance down at the tiny, fragile bird, its chest heaving, while its life slowly slips away. The bird quivers in my palms, barely hanging by a thread. A torrent of guilt and sadness washes over me, battling with the grim necessity of my choice.

“I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry,” I whisper in pain, and swiftly snap its tiny neck. The crack is small, but final.

“Marcello!” My mother’s voice slices through the air, sharp with panic, revealing that she must have been watching me the whole time. Her shout brings my father rushing outside, and both of them stand frozen upon seeing the dead bird still lying in my hands, realizing what I’ve done.

My mother becomes pale, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and confusion, while my father remains silent, with a blank expression plastered on his face.

I open my mouth to explain, but am interrupted when Annamaria and Stella run into the backyard with a wet towel in hand. Before they notice what I’ve done, I quickly stand up and turn my back to them, wrapping the sparrow in a handkerchief I’d stuffed in my pocket earlier. Once I’ve hidden the broken body deep in my jeans pocket, I pick up a pebble from the ground and discreetly hurl it into the nearest tree, coaxing a flurry of sparrows to burst into the sky.

“Where’s Birdie?” Annamaria asks, confused when she doesn’t see her friend in my hands. “Is he okay?”

“He’s better than okay,” I say, pointing up. “He’s flying with his friends.”

Annamaria stares upward, her whole face lighting up, unable to differentiate the sparrow she begged me to save from the ones flying freely above. “Birdie!” she squeals with joy.

However, by the way Stella narrows her eyes at me, I can tell she isn’t fooled by the bird’s miraculous recovery.

But it’s not my sister’s suspicion that twists my insides. It’s the look on my parents’ faces.

My mother still isn’t sure what she just saw, or what to make of it.

And my father…he just stares, expressionless. Cold.

That’s what breaks me. That’s what triggers the voice to talk to me again.

‘See? They know now. They know what we are. But don’t worry. I’ll protect us. I’ll always protect us. From everyone.’

I wake up drenched in cold sweat with the memories of the past clawed at the edges of my mind, slipping into my dreams and stealing any chance of rest.

Still, it could’ve been worse. Out of all the things I remember from my youth, killing that sparrow to spare my sister and that bird pain is one of the least troubling. Which, unfortunately, says a lot.

A quick glance at the clock on my bedside table reveals that it’s a few minutes past four in the morning. Meaning it’s too late to try falling back asleep and too early to start the day. Still, I’ve never been the type to lounge around, least of all in sheets that are soaked through, an occurrence that happens more often than not.

As if on autopilot, I get out of bed, strip the sheets, and toss them straight into the wash. Then I head for the shower, hoping the scalding water will rinse off whatever pieces of the nightmare still cling to me. I scrub until my skin feels raw and new, intent on starting the day without dragging last night’s nightmare along with me.

Once back in the bedroom, I open the dresser and grab a pair of old workout sweats and a faded T-shirt, since it’s one of the few combos I haven’t already worn to the gym this week. Most of my clothes are still at my parents’ place. That’s where my real wardrobe lives, packed into drawers and closet space that don’t really feel mine anymore. And there’s a reason for that.