Dirty Daddies(28)

It looks like it’s gonna be a nice day today, even if the ground is still bound to be boggy from the rain last night. I got up early because that springy bed makes stupid squeaks every time I roll over, but that’s alright. I like getting up early. It makes sense that travelling is in my genetics, because there’s nothing I like more than exploring as the sun comes up outside. I hate being cooped up while there’s a big open world out there.

I’m so desperate to get out into it that I don’t even grab any breakfast. I lace up my boots and head through the back door, wondering just how many of the fields I counted from the window belong to this house. I bet it’s all of them. Most of them at least.

I have to climb over some fences, but my ankle holds up just fine. I scrabble through a couple of broken hedgerows and find a little stream that’s just perfect for hopping over.

Being in the middle of nowhere excites me. Being just me amongst the magic of nature is the thing that makes my soul happy. The hours disappear so easily out here. I find I’m smiling, even though I still feel like shit about Michael. I find I’m twirling, laughing, calling to the birds in the trees. They probably think I’m as crazy as I feel, but my blood is pumping and my hair is flying all around me and I love it. I really love it.

And then I see something. A bedraggled something flapping around on the ground by the hedge at the far side. I head over to get a closer look, and it’s a crow, a big black one with beady eyes that glint as it stares at me. My heart drops as I see he’s got his leg caught in some wire, and I hate posh guy for having such an amazing place and not taking care of the maintenance. The fence is crap down here, all broken and battered, and nature’s suffering, yet again, for humanity’s dumbfuck ignorance.

Even in boots I can move quietly when I need to. I’m slow and steady, making sure I talk to the bird real softly as I make my way over. He flaps hard but he can’t go anywhere. His eyes don’t leave mine at all, and when I get there he caws at me but doesn’t freak out like I thought he might.

His feathers are muddy and trashed. His leg looks sore where the wire’s cut him, but it seems like he can still move it.

I don’t know where posh guy keeps a tool kit and I wouldn’t want to head all the way back to the house even if I did. This crow needs freeing right away, so I crouch down, crawling along the last bit, right through the mud, until I can get a proper look at things. I sigh in relief to find I can do this. I really can do this by hand.

I’m careful. Really careful.

I put my hand on the crow’s wings and hold him to the ground, just enough to steady him. My fingers free up some slack on the wire and gently, really gently, I twist it free of the bird’s leg.

I’m quick when I’ve done it, bundling the bird into my arms before he can attempt to fly away. I’ll need to look at him, maybe wash him down with something and try to straighten up his mangled feathers.

I feel like I’m carrying the most amazing treasure on the planet as I head back to the house. The crow doesn’t fight me, not when he’s held safe under my arm. It’s like he knows I saved him, and it figures, because they’re super smart birds. Smarter than some people, I’m sure, because so many people are fucking idiots.

I don’t really have a plan for once I’m inside, so I just shut the back door behind me and hope the crow stays calm when I put him on the kitchen island.

He doesn’t.

The moment I let him go he flaps about and takes off right through to the dining room.

Fuck.

I haven’t got time to take my boots off, be fucked with posh guy’s carpets. I haven’t got time to do anything but chase after the bird and hope he doesn’t wreck everything before I’ve even had the chance to help his foot.

He settles on the top of some big display cabinet, so I grab a dining chair and climb up after him. He’s gone before I reach him, and as he takes off he dislodges one of the ornaments on the top shelf. The big garish glass thing tumbles before I can catch it, smashes on the floor into a billion pieces of gaudy coloured glass.

Fuck. It’s not even lunchtime and I’m already trashing the fucking place.

The sound of smashing glass freaks the poor crow out worse, and he shits himself, dumping big globs of crap over the dining table before he heads through the door back into the hallway.

Fuck. I should’ve fucking closed that.

My boots crunch over the broken glass and trample a load of it with me. I see the sparkles in the carpet as I chase the bird around the house, finally cornering him in the living room where he settles on a big framed-mirror behind the sofa.