Daddy's Little Bird

Behind me the security gate slid shut for the last time and the hawk, as usual, was circling overhead. Locked and hidden away, head tilted, she too, would be peering through her veil of thinning blonde hair at that same hawk.

‘What do you make of it all, Doc?’

That question, asked long ago, remains.

‘What’s your name?’

Eventually, hesitantly, three small words: ‘Daddy's little bird.’

Three words. In twenty years, just three whispered words.

Discovered in her home, a wall of macabre art created from the guts of a mutilated budgerigar. In addition, DNA tests showed its blood had been mixed in with her father's.

The best guess was that she’d been about fourteen at the time. With no trace of her in any records, it’s difficult to tell. I photographed this grim art, and much later, showed it to her. Her head tilted and twitched bird-like, as she stared. It was progress. I gave her paint, paper and brushes and she would reproduce her art, painting every day. Presenting each one as if it were her first.

In the end, medical, alongside my own psychological reports, offered enough mitigation for her sliding a hidden razor between her fingers and slicing open his throat.  

Found standing outside, motionless, drenched in blood and staring into the sky, it hadn’t been hard to find where she’d been held.

I’ve kept her last painting. The angry colours reduced now to soft pastel show a kind of peace.

It’s enough. It's all there is.