Chapter 5 - The Blood Of The Mockingbird

The biting wind, a serrated edge against exposed skin, whipped through the skeletal branches of the surrounding forest. November 24th, a Friday steeped in the melancholic hues of late autumn, was drawing to a close. Inside the orphanage, a fragile warmth radiated from the communal dining hall, a temporary sanctuary against the encroaching cold. The clatter of cutlery against tin plates punctuated the air as Victor and the other children dutifully consumed their meager meal of mashed potatoes and a wilting side salad. Helena, her gaze sharp and vigilant, patrolled the periphery, a silent sentinel against the inevitable chaos of spilled food and childish exuberance.

A promise of release hung in the air – the afternoon's play in the burgeoning snow. Since my arrival at this isolated haven, the snow had been a constant companion, a silent, ethereal descent that had now transformed the landscape into a pristine, white expanse. Outside, the children erupted in a flurry of joyous activity, each lost in the intricate tapestry of their own winter wonderland. Snowmen, their lopsided grins frozen in time, stood as silent witnesses to the snowball fights that peppered the air with white bursts. Yet, amidst this innocent revelry, the older children and a few of the adults had carved out their own space, their shouts and the sharp crack of a baseball bat echoing through the crisp air.

The orphanage, a sturdy structure of weathered stone and timber, stood nestled within the heart of the forest, a small island of human habitation in a sea of ancient trees. A generous clearing, a natural amphitheater of snow-covered ground extending outwards for a radius of five hundred meters, provided ample space for both the boisterous games of the children and the more structured pastime of the adults. The forest, a dark and brooding presence, encircled this clearing, its silent sentinels of oak and pine casting long, skeletal shadows across the pristine snow.

My gaze drifted towards one of the older boys, Steven. He possessed a striking handsomeness, his blonde hair catching the weak afternoon light, framing a face dominated by a pair of intensely black eyes. He wore a sporty basketball jacket, its vibrant colors a stark contrast to the monochrome landscape. His presence seemed to exert an almost magnetic pull on the older girls, their voices rising in a chorus of adoring chants, "Steven! Steven! Steven!" For me, Lily, it felt like a ridiculous spectacle, a pointless eruption of teenage infatuation. They cleared snow for some spot to play base ball.

Victor, his youthful face earnest, approached me as I sat slightly apart, observing the unfolding scene with a detached air. He settled beside me, the crunch of snow beneath his weight a soft counterpoint to the distant cheers. "Lily," he began hesitantly, "I have a doubt?"

I remained silent for a moment, my eyes fixed on the swirling patterns of the falling snow. Then, turning to him, I offered a simple, "What is it?"

"Why did the girls go after Steven?" he asked, his brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. "What makes them love Steven and what doesn't you?"

She lifted her gaze to the leaden sky, where heavy clouds promised more snow. A faint smile touched my lips as she finally spoke. "They're just idiots. They think he is cute and handsome, but I think you're cuter than him."

A wave of crimson washed over Victor's face, his cheeks blooming with a sudden, endearing blush. He stammered a reply, but his words were lost in the renewed shouts from the baseball game.

Frank, one of the more boisterous boys, had joined the adults. His distant figure, clutching the white sphere tightly, wound up for a throw. "Here I go!" his voice boomed across the snowy expanse, the sound strangely muffled by the falling flakes.

The ball hurtled through the air with surprising velocity, yet to my eyes, perhaps due to the distance or the distorting effect of the snow, it seemed to drift languidly. Steven, poised at bat, swung with all his youthful strength. The crack of the bat against the ball was sharp and resonant, a sound that momentarily silenced the surrounding noise. The ball, propelled by the force of the impact, soared through the air, a white projectile against the grey sky.

Then, a sudden, heart-stopping thud. A small, grey-brown form plummeted from the sky, a flurry of feathers against the white backdrop. A mockingbird. Its cry, a sharp, piercing note of pure agony, sliced through the air, a sound that seemed to tear at the very fabric of the afternoon's fragile peace. It fell with a sickening finality, as if gravity itself had suddenly doubled its pull, breaking through the unseen resistance of the air.

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Every head turned towards the fallen creature, its small body lying still and broken on the snow-covered ground, an angel fallen from grace. Steven, his youthful exuberance instantly extinguished, removed his glasses, his black eyes wide with disbelief and dawning horror. "Oh my god," he whispered, his face a mask of shock. He stared at the lifeless bird as if unable to comprehend the reality before him.

Close by, beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient oak, sat Orion. He was a solitary figure, often lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts, his constant companion a worn, leather-bound notebook. He was hunched over it now, his pen scratching furiously across the pages, weaving words into the intricate tapestry of a poem. The falling bird had landed directly on his open notebook, its small body obscuring the lines he had just penned.

All eyes now turned from the fallen bird to Steven, the unwitting agent of its demise. A palpable tension hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Steven, his voice laced with a nervous tremor, offered a hesitant, "I can make it correct." The words hung in the cold air, absurd and inadequate in the face of death.

I looked at him, a wave of contempt washing over me. "You moron," I muttered, the single word a harsh indictment of his carelessness.

Orion, oblivious to the scrutiny he was under, carefully lifted the small, still form of the mockingbird. His movements were strangely gentle, a stark contrast to the violent act that had brought it down. As his long, pale fingers brushed against the bird's breast, a flicker of movement. A twitch. Its tiny legs spasmed, a brief, desperate dance with the fading vestiges of life. It was a fleeting illusion, a cruel trick of the light and the lingering nerve impulses. The bird was dead.

The mother of one of the younger children, her face etched with concern, stepped forward. "All of you just play at your place, don't worry, I'll look after it," she said, her voice attempting to inject a note of calm into the increasingly charged atmosphere. Her hand reached out towards Victor, perhaps mistaking his proximity for involvement. But her movement faltered, her words caught in her throat as she noticed Orion. He was cradling the bird in his hand, his grip strangely possessive, his gaze fixed intently on its lifeless eyes.

"Don't squeeze it hard," Helena interjected, her voice sharp with authority. "Give me the bird. I'll treat it with care."

But Orion remained unmoved, his attention seemingly locked on the dead creature in his grasp. He didn't acknowledge Helena's words, his silence radiating an unsettling intensity.

Then, a sharp, piercing cry shattered the tense quiet. "Ahhh!!!" Helena recoiled, her face contorted in a mixture of shock and revulsion.

Flora, a small, timid girl who had been standing near Helena, stared at Victor, her eyes wide with a dawning horror. There was blood on his hand, a dark, viscous stain against the pale skin. A smear of it marred his shirt, and a single droplet clung precariously to his cheek. "Blood… blood… it's the bird's blood," she whispered, her voice fragile and thin, as if the very sight had drained her of strength. Her eyes, usually a soft brown, seemed to lose their color, becoming wide and unnervingly white.

A wave of horrified realization washed over the onlookers. The pen that Orion had been holding was now embedded in the bird's eye, a dark, accusing spike. Blood, thick and crimson, oozed from the wound, staining his hand, his sleeve, and splattering across the open pages of his notebook. His face, however, remained strangely devoid of emotion, an impassive mask as he stared at the gruesome tableau as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The poem he had been writing was now marred by the crimson stain, the delicate lines of verse bleeding into the stark reality of death. It was as if the poem itself had been forced to confront a truth far darker than any words could convey, its beauty defiled by the visceral ugliness of mortality.

Orion slowly, deliberately, flipped his notebook backwards, the bloodied pages turning with a soft, sickening rustle.

Helena stood frozen, a white towel clutched in her trembling hand, her eyes fixed on Orion with a mixture of disbelief and growing unease.

Steven, his earlier shock giving way to a morbid fascination, muttered under his breath, "Oh fuck."

Then, Orion's grip on the dead bird tightened. A fresh surge of blood welled from the wound, flowing onto the upturned pages of his notebook, a dark tide washing over his words.

It was a grotesque sight, the lifeless bird clutched in his bloodied hand, its vacant eye staring blankly upwards. Flora, standing closest to him, was visibly petrified, her small body trembling. Helena, her face pale and drawn, instinctively took a step backwards, a wave of nausea rising in her throat. Flora remained rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on the horrifying scene unfolding before her.

Helena turned abruptly and fled towards the kitchen, the image of the bloodied bird and Orion's impassive face churning in her stomach. The meager contents of her lunch – the bland mashed potatoes and the wilted salad – erupted from her in a violent spasm.

Flora continued to stare, transfixed, at Orion as he squeezed the lifeless bird, his hand now slick with its blood.

Steven, his voice a low murmur, laced with a strange mixture of bewilderment and morbid curiosity, asked, "Does he think the bird blood is some kind of pattern?"

I, Lily, felt a cold dread creep into my heart, a sense of unease that transcended the simple shock of witnessing death. Orion's detached demeanor, his almost ritualistic handling of the dead bird, was profoundly disturbing. The other children, too, were visibly shaken, their earlier joy replaced by a palpable fear.

Flora, her face ashen, took a tentative step towards Orion, her movements slow and hesitant, as if she were navigating a nightmare. Her eyes, still unnervingly white, remained fixed on the bloodied bird in his hand. Orion squeezed it again, a deliberate, almost cruel gesture, and a fresh stream of blood oozed out, dripping onto Flora's pale face.

"Why?" she whispered, the single word a raw expression of her terror and confusion.

The blood now saturated Orion's notebook, the pages heavy and sodden. He began to write again, his pen scratching through the crimson stain. Flora leaned closer, her gaze drawn to the macabre text, but Orion's head snapped up, his eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, chilling intensity. They were no longer the vacant eyes of someone lost in his own world; they were sharp, vicious, filled with a cold, unsettling awareness.

Flora recoiled, taking several stumbling steps backwards, her breath catching in her throat.

The horrifying reality of the scene, coupled with the sudden, malevolent glare in Orion's eyes, overwhelmed her. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed onto the snow-covered ground, a small, broken figure against the white expanse.

He written in the book :

24th of November

I killed a mockingbird. Because it said so to me. Its eyes looked at me for death and the bird praised me for death. Now I hope the bird soul goes to heaven and the blood remains with me in hell.

No one else knew the words he had scrawled in his blood-soaked notebook, the dark pact he seemed to have made with the dying creature.

Orion closed the book, the wet pages sticking together with a soft, squelching sound. He stood up, his movements deliberate and unsettlingly calm, and walked towards the orphanage, the dead bird still clutched in his hand.

His mental state was a well-known fragility within the orphanage walls. Sister Helena, even in her distress, knew that any attempt to intervene, to question his actions, would be futile, a wasted effort against the impenetrable barrier of his illness. No one dared to speculate what he intended to do with the dead bird once he was inside the silent confines of the building.

After Orion had disappeared inside, Steven, his voice still tinged with nervousness, blurted out, "It isn't me who killed the bird." He repeated the denial even though no one had explicitly blamed him, his guilt a palpable presence in the chilling aftermath.

Slowly, hesitantly, the younger children began to resume their play, their laughter subdued, their movements less boisterous. The immediate shock of the incident began to recede, replaced by a lingering unease, a collective sense of dread that permeated the cold air. I knew that I, for one, would never forget the sight of the falling bird, the sickening thud, the crimson stain on the pristine snow. But for Lily, there was a different kind of awareness in her gaze, a strange, almost knowing look as she watched Orion disappear into the darkness of the orphanage.

The bloodstains remained on the snow, a stark and disturbing tableau against the white. It looked like blood snow, a morbid reminder of the violence that had shattered the afternoon's fragile peace. Eventually, the older boys, their faces grim, began to shovel the bloodied snow, carrying it away in heavy drifts and dumping it deep within the silent, watchful embrace of the forest, as if hoping to bury not just the evidence, but the memory itself