By Bea Nield
He pushes his hand across. Watch, watch as the skin swirls and crumples around his fingertips. See him find the ribs, protruding ever so gently under his chest. Following them up, finding the best two.
Cry as he digs his nails in, pulls them apart. Let your ears bleed at their crack. Cherry swirling up, pouring and pouring out.
Pink flesh warping, squirming, tearing away; his desperation builds.
He’s found it.
The bird.
It beats in his palm, wrestling with it, so hoping they might both survive.
It’s out, and his hand slips.
It’s out and his head drops.
It’s out and so is he.