Black Bird

Kimothy gazed skyward watching a few black birds flying south amongst the clear, forgive-me-not-blue sky, wishing he was one of them flying aimlessly about, not a single care in the world. He desperately wanted to suddenly sprout wings one day and fly, fly far from those who teased him; from those who did not understand what he was going through; from those who did know but was too self-inflicted upon themselves to ever think of helping him -- most importantly, he wanted to fly as far as he possibly could from his father.

Kimothy came from a broken home, his father never seemed to care much about him anymore. He remembered quite vaguely a time when he'd been younger he had two loving parents who cared for him deeply. However, everything changed rather abruptly by the time Kimothy turned six; his mother and father had gotten in to a terrible argument late one night, long after young Kimothy had retired to bed. He remembered waking abruptly from his deep slumber from their sudden loud shouts. Wondering what all the fuss was about, he had slipped out of bed and crept silently out his bedroom to sit on the top most stair and listen in on their shouted argument, unseen. Being only six years old at the time, Kimothy was very frightened and didn't dare try to creep back to his bed for fear of being caught and getting in trouble for eavesdropping on private manners; so he just sat upon that step, sobbing noiselessly. Though now, at the tender age of fifteen, Kimothy could not remember exactly what his parents had been arguing about, but whatever it had been had resulted in his mother leaving that night and not returning -- that was the last time Kimothy ever saw her.

After Mom left it was like a black plaque had suddenly struck the house, Dad had become an abusive alcoholic. (He never used to drank when he was with Mom, but something within him had caused him to.) He quit going to work whatever money he obtained throughout the week went straight to alcohol rather than for food, the bills, and new clothes, shoes, and other things necessary for Kimothy. But everything rapidly went down hill a couple weeks ago, Dad had finally gotten laid off, because of this he soon toke his anger out on the only person who actually mattered to him: Kimothy. So every night for the past fortnight Kimothy had to endure his father's every threat, every beating he gave out, his every shout at how worthless a son Kimothy was.

And yet, as Kimothy stood on the old weather beaten back porch gazing skyward at the birds, he was still there, though battered; the previous nights beating had been the worst by far. Kimothy sighed inwardly, wincing as he tried to repress the awful memories that threatened to overwhelm him but failing to do so. He wanted nothing more than to forget, forget about everything that had happened to him the past nine years. He wanted to be just like those black birds. It would be a simple life, wouldn't it? To be able to come and go as one chooses, to never have to endure someone's hate filled words, to never have to be loved by anyone.

What if Kimothy suddenly died tonight? Would anyone care? Would his father grieve as he had done when Mom left, and wish his only son was still alive so he could apologize and be the father he used to be? Would he even care if Kimothy was dead? At least, thought Kimothy as the black birds steadily became small black specks in the sky, then he wouldn't be able to touch me anymore.

As the thought overwhelmed his mind, he subconsciously tore his gaze from the sky and entered the house, limping on ever other step as he made his slow way to the kitchen. He opened the drawer where the silverware was kept and pulled out a knife. He stood there staring at the blade, wanting so badly as to end his pitiful life, to end the agony -- to end it all. Kimothy wanted to fly simultaneously with those black birds, never to be seen nor heard from again. After all, it has been said it's easy to commit suicide, right? It would be so simple for Kimothy, he had no one. No friends at that god-for-saken place they called school. No family he ever considered being a part of. No one. So, who'd miss him? Surely not his father, he'd probably laugh himself silly at hearing the news that his only son had taken his own life.

Kimothy swallowed slowly as he ran a thumb over the blade thinking it over. Being a part of the dead wouldn't seem so bad. He never considered it before now. How it would feel. How quick it'd be. Where he would end up amidst the already deceased. Would his father pay for a funeral, or would he just leave Kimothy's body to decompose on the filthy kitchen floor?

Kimothy sighed yet again, wincing slightly; he couldn't bring himself to do this. It wasn't in him to take his own life, perhaps with time his father would take it for him. Until then Kimothy had to bear with whatever was handed to him. He put the blade back in its drawer and closed it. He looked out the small, grimy kitchen window above the small, rust stained kitchen sink, searching the skies for more black birds. Almost immediately he spotted two more flying north. One day he'll soar high in the sky and join them, but not today. A small grin played on Kimothy's lips at the mere thought. He could hardly wait.