Suicide no. 44: Bird Rape in Spring

Suicide no. 44: Bird Rape in Spring

–by Derek Alan Wilkinson

 

Consider ye the fowl of the air, you dumb fuck is what he thought to himself, watching this poor virgin—this castrated, shorter, nicer virgin of himself, handing over some stupid piece of poetry to the poor, ashamed girl: who, if the guy had known what kind of girl Hayley was when you get her drunk enough…well, let’s just say Jeremy knew how to talk to girls, and his poorly dressed poet of a friend did not.

 

Spring had sprung at Washington High, which meant Jeremy got to bask in that glory of scantily-dressed, sixteen-year-old girls vying for attention from heartbroken, naïve boys like John—boys who would never see the vaginal light of day until they realized that, if every blue jay and finch male had spent all spring singing in high treetops trying to get a sexual response from their female friends, there simply wouldn’t be any more blue jays or finches left.

 

Natural selection thus has its means and end, Jeremy thought.

 

Jeremy knew that John would have his day, though. He’d shack up with some girl, who, after she’d made her rounds—screwing every asshole she’d met—she’d eventually start feeling either bad about it, or start to think that she just “didn’t have it in her” anymore. After her self esteem started to flat line, she’d settle for a “John,” and she’d housebreak him into a working husband who could and would support children that might not even be his out of the kindness of his nice and browbeaten heart.

 

Jeremy didn’t have it in him to live that way, although he did want to be “loved” for once. He wasn’t altogether different from John in that regard. The difference, though was that he felt, in order to be “loved,” it would also mean being “necessary” for something—to be, and want to be, used by another person. He saw the concept bearing an unnatural feeling of masochism, which he found impossible to stomach.

 

Maybe when I feel like I can’t do any better, he smugly thought to himself.

 

By better, he meant the way things were last spring—when he’d made his rounds with Courtney, and then with Liz, her best friend. Followed by Liz’s sister, Rachael. Followed by the twenty-something goth girl that worked at the records store, Becca. Followed by…god, what was her name? Lindsey? No, Courtney. Followed by that art teacher who, just beginning her career, could’ve lost her job teaching at Washington High if anybody knew.

 

He couldn’t count them all to save his life.

 

One thing he could count on, as he watched cardinals and robins chase each other around madly above his head—some with three, four, or five males to a single, tormented female—was that there existed a certain order to be followed.

 

Only now, as he watched John walk away, knowing the boy’s fate, he wasn’t sure that he liked that order very well.

 

When will he ever be truly loved? Jeremy thought.

 

And, in the weeks to come—when high school classmates met off campus in a candlelight vigil—when he saw just how much the world missed John after he’d ended his life, he suddenly knew.

 

 

Inspired by: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/when-will-i-be-loved/

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3 thoughts on “Suicide no. 44: Bird Rape in Spring

  1. Pingback: When Will I Be Loved? | My Atheist Blog

  2. Pingback: Daily Prompt: When Will I Be Loved? | Chronicles of an Anglo Swiss

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