The Parrot

[SlaughterShy]

The Parrot
A short story by SlaughterShy​

A man cleans a bureau in a simple, square room, the lemony scent of furniture polisher heavy in the air. His eyes glance to the bird sitting in the corner intermittently, the parrot eerily staring in his directions. Its blank, glassy eyes stare back at him, the red-lined pupils seeming almost diabolic.

Rustle.

The man finishes dusting the bureau, the mahogany of its surface sleek and shiny.

The wind blows rain against the window; the droplets of water sound like small children banging on the window with their tiny, sticky hands. A thunder storm is coming.

Crack!

A bolt of lightning explodes in the distance, flashing a white, transcendent light into the room. The man trips on the bureau, his toe catching the edge of it and twisting as he falls.

“Gosh darn it!” he calls, his face connecting with the ground. Eyes widening, he realizes his mistake.

The parrot’s eyes lock onto his, glowing red like hot coals.

The man freezes, splayed onto the floor. His hand starts shaking and clamming up with beads of sweat.

“Polly wants a cracker, b***h,” the parrot says, his voice projecting around the room. His beak takes on a silver color, bending and extending outward until it forms a shape similar to that of a sword.

The man quickly stands up, ignoring the stabbing pain of his toe. He runs for the door, but before he can reach the handle, it is barred by a titanium door. He pounds on the door, hopelessly screaming for someone to hear him.

“There’s no use trying,” the parrot says, taking its sword-beak and bending the cage like butter.

“No…No… Please…I have a family,” says the man, tears filling his eyes as he falls back against the door, his knees buckling under his weight.

“Then they’ll be next. After that, the world.” the parrot cackles, its laugh sounding similar to the screech of nails against a chalkboard. The parrot propels forward, stabbing its beak into the man’s chest. The sharp blade sinks through, though he has to saw it through the bone. It moves back and forth, creating a sound like sandpaper being rubbed against wood.

The man attempts to scream, but his voice is cut off by the bubbling of blood in his throat. It flows out of his mouth, the froth coating his chin and dripping onto his shirt. A quiet, pathetic guttural moan comes from his body before fading out.

“Ah, so you’re still alive,” the parrot says, his voice gleeful. He moves his head in a woodpecker motion to peck the eyes out of the man’s head. It breaks the surface, blood spitting from the sockets. After a short amount of time, only a muddled, pink mush is left within them.

The man is finally silent, not even the sound of a beating heart present.

The parrot cackles once again, unlocking the door. Before leaving, he turns around and admires his work.

“Ah, never gets old,” he thinks to himself, admiring the juxtaposition of the bright red against the white walls. The upper portion of the man's face is covered in what looks to be pink cottage cheese, while his chin is slick with fresh blood.

He turns around, entering the rest of the house in search of the man’s family.