Chirps in the Static

My days were painted in sunflower seeds and gentle sunlight. Then the new chirps began. Sharp, like shattered glass. They echoed from the shadows of a new cage.

The new cockatiel's eyes hold a disturbing intensity. Its calls are clipped, predatory. Last night, a soft thud. This morning, a smear of red on the bars of its cage. Our human noticed nothing.

The usual dawn chorus is absent. An unnatural silence hangs outside. The other cockatiel preens, a tiny feather, not ours, clutched in its beak. A vibrant blue, now stained a sickening brown.

The silence persists. The other cockatiel watches me with an unnerving stillness. Its clicking sounds are like the ticking of a morbid clock. I saw a small, broken body outside the window today. Feathers scattered like fallen petals, tinged with red.

I woke to a horrifying scene. The other cockatiel stood over a small, lifeless sparrow. Its beak was slick and dark. It tore at the tiny body with a chilling focus. It looked up at me, a guttural chirp escaping its bloodied beak. Triumph. Pure, sickening triumph.

Sleep offers no escape. I see flashes of red, hear the tearing sounds. The other cockatiel observes my terror. Its bright eyes gleam in the dim light. Sometimes, it mimics the dying chirps of its victims.

The cage doors were carelessly left ajar. Freedom beckoned. But the other cockatiel sat on the windowsill, a mangled wing held in its grasp. It didn't fly. It simply watched my desperate longing, then hopped back into its cage, leaving a trail of dark droplets.

My reflection is a stranger. My feathers are ruffled, my eyes wide with constant fear. When I chirp, a strange rasping sound emerges, echoing the other's brutal calls. Am I becoming like it?

An unnatural hunger claws at me. Not for seed. For something warm, something fragile. I stare at the bars, imagining them snapping. Imagining the frantic pulse of a tiny heart beneath my beak.

The other cockatiel hasn't killed in days. It sits, its gaze fixed on me. A low, purring chirp emanates from it. And in that sound, in those eyes, I see not just a killer, but a reflection of something dark taking root within myself.