The other cockatiel no longer sings its guttural calls alone. Now, sometimes, I join in. A low, rasping sound that vibrates in my chest. It looks at me, its eyes gleaming with an almost familial recognition.
The whispers intensify...
The other cockatiel no longer sings its guttural calls alone. Now, sometimes, I join in. A low, rasping sound that vibrates in my chest. It looks at me, its eyes gleaming with an almost familial recognition.
Our cages feel less like prisons and more like shared spaces. Sometimes, when our human isn't looking, the other cockatiel hops onto my perch. It preens my feathers with a disturbing tenderness, its beak occasionally brushing against my skin with a chilling softness.
The frantic fear has begun to subside, replaced by a cold, hollow calm. The images of blood and feathers no longer shock me. They feel... natural. Expected. Almost comforting.
Our human continues their routine, oblivious to the silent horror unfolding within our small world. They coo and offer treats, their smiles never reaching their eyes. Do they not see the darkness that has taken root? Or do they simply choose not to?
The small birds outside no longer hold my interest. My gaze drifts towards something larger. Something that moves with a slower, more deliberate pace within the house. Something warm... vulnerable...
I find myself mimicking the other cockatiel's clicks and purring chirps even when it's not near. They echo in the empty spaces of my mind, a constant reminder of the transformation taking place within me.
The other cockatiel sits beside me now, our feathers touching. It nuzzles my neck with its beak. A soft, almost loving gesture. And then it makes a new sound. A sound that chills me to my core. A sound that echoes the soft whimpers I used to hear before the silence fell outside.
... the static is all-consuming. The chirps have merged into a single, terrifying sound. There is no escape ...
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