There were two round spots, bright like carrots, adorned on each cheek. Atop its head, the bird’s pale-yellow hair was slicked back into a Mohawk. It fluttered nervously in its cage. Its name was Pikachu.
“What do you think?” the mother asked, crouching to make her eyes level with the little girl’s.
The girl smiled, her teeth square and white, like a row of tic-tacs. She eagerly climbed onto her mother’s crouching figure, pressing wet, sloppy kisses all over her face.
The mother puckered her lips and pointed, What about this one? The girl wrinkled her nose, giving her mom a quick peck in the innocent and unabashed way that only children can.
Laughing, the mother said, “Just that? Maybe I’ll take the bird back. I bet she’ll show her mother more love. See,” she tilted her head, “she even heard me. ‘Take me back home! I miss my Mama…’” Indeed, the bird was cawing petulantly in its cage, talons curled against the rails.
Fear seized the little girl. With her heart pounding in her ears, she stood in front of the cage—a mother bear protecting her cub. Already, the girl had grown attached to her new pet–it was an instinct which she didn’t understand.
The bird was different from all the other toys she’d had: stuffed, fluffy animals, naked Barbie figurines, even plastic babies with lids you could pull shut. The mechanical voices of their canned responses couldn’t compare to the bird’s trill. The toys were still. Dead.
“I’m just kidding,” said the mother, pinching her daughter’s nose. “You’re too sensitive, like your father.”
The tension in the girl’s shoulders eased up a bit, but she remained wary, not moving from her position.
“If you keep blocking the cage, then how can I let you hold her? Here,” the mother maneuvered under the little girl’s skinny arm and flicked open the lock, “let me grab her.”
With wide-eyes, the girl watched as her mother carefully extracted the bird from its cage. She couldn’t make a sound, afraid that even a slight disruption would send the bird awry. Still, she was antsy. She wanted to reach out and grab it; she wanted to clutch the creature to her breast.
“Open your hands like you’re cupping a bowl,” her mother ordered.
When the bird was finally nestled between the girl’s palms, bracketed by her fingers, she did not act on her desire to bury it to her chest. Instead, she held the animal up to her face, peering into its shiny, black eyes. It was a warm, alive thing. She felt its heart thrumming underneath her thumb, too quickly for her to count, 1..2..3..4.567891011. Pikachu squirmed, trying to flap her paper-thin wings. No, the girl’s fingers tightened. Don’t leave.
“Honey, I think she’s scared. Why don’t we put her back in the cage? I’m sure she’s tired after such a long day. You can play with her after dinner.”
Obeying her mother, the girl felt a sharp pang of loss. Her fingers itched to feel the soft, wriggling mass. To press her thumb against its breast and count its heartbeats. It was a hot, visceral thing, this urge. Mine, she thought, watching Pikachu huddled in the corner of her cage. Mine.
***
While her mother was cooking, the girl slunk away, like a cat, to the foyer. She pretended she was in an area thick with landmines, side-stepping around chairs, tip-toeing over wayward cushions and lost toys. Quiet, quiet, quiet, she went on. When she unlocked the cage with a flick of her finger, as she had seen her mom do before, she found Pikachu perched on her swing, beak high and belly out.
The little girl felt lightheaded with happiness. With Pikachu in her hands once again, she thumbed the silky, underside of her belly. Soft. Her hands, usually small and slight, were massive, engulfing the creature. She squeezed. The bird jostled its wings, chirping. Invigorated by its response, she squeezed again, feelings its plush body compress, like a ripe fruit. Harder and harder still, she squeezed, until the heartbeat that was steadily pulsing under her thumb went quiet. Pikachu was still.
The little girl didn’t understand. What happened? She imagined she had pushed the wrong button, like a toy, turning the bird off. She pictured her mother coming now, seeing Pikachu’s prone figure in the palms of her hands. What did you do? she would shout, eyes wide in accusation. What did you do?
She heard the tell-tale clack, clack, clack of her mother’s heels against the linoleum floor. Panicked, the girl slipped the bird back into its cage, carefully sliding the lock back into place.
After dinner, her mother asked, “Do you want to see the bird again?” but the girl only shook her head.
She still hadn’t had her dessert.
Behind the Writing
“I wanted to write a tragic piece. But instead of the tragedy being the protagonist, I wanted the protagonist to be a direct cause to it.”
Writer To Writer Literary Journal 