Daily Screams

Bobby

Bobby twitches the net curtains and stares out at the lawn. One hand - small, dirty, with torn and jagged nails - wipes the windowpane making the glass more grubby, not less.
He snickers, an unpleasant sound somewhere between a hiss and a snort, as a CROW lands on the bird-table and begins to feed.
Bobby doesn’t like animals, at least not anything that doesn’t have stingers, pinchers or at least really, really big teeth. Sharks are his current favourite, but the cold waters off the north coast aren’t a common hangout for these steely-eyed predators. Basking sharks occasionally grace the south coast, but since they’re harmless these gentle giants hold no allure for Bobby.
The crow tears into the rabbit laying on the TABLE. Chunks of grey-pink meat came away and the crow deftly throws back his head and swallowing each lump whole. Deciding no to take any chances, Bobby had lagged the bird-table last night with SUPERGLUE, rubbing the rabbit into it until it’s fur turned thick and gloopy with own-brand adhesive. He's not sure if it's necessary - can crows carry off full-sized rabbits?
It’s probably that if Bobby had a shotgun, rifle or even a simple air-gun, the rabbit would be superfluous; he’d simply lay the barrel on the open window frame, peer down the sights and catch the crow square. It’s quite impossible to image Bobby owning a gun and not firing it, over and over again, until he is a crack-shot. Or that the neighbourhood would suddenly lose a lot of cats. Presumably that is why Bobby’s parents are so recalcitrant regarding to firearms. They know their son is likely to be on CrimeWatch before he is much older.
The crow starts and flies off into the trees, and Bobby pulls back from the window disappointed. But his dismay is short-lived, whatever spooked the crow is gone and he swoops back down. As his beak rips into the FLESH, the light glints off thin threads hanging from his beak. The crow slurps the threads up like glassy spaghetti and Bobby’s sniggers turn to full-on guffaws. He’s rocking back and forth on the stained window seat watching the bird-table with unholy delight. There’s over a metre of FISHING LINE in that rabbit, Bobby knows because he spent two glorious hours last night slitting open the rabbit (he’d hit it with a school book in anger when it squirmed and tried to bite him, and then when the horrible furry thing screamed and twisted under the knife he’d stolen from the kitchen, Bobby’s hand had slipped and he’d cut himself. In rage he’d stabbed down and severed the rabbit’s spinal cord) and tangling the nylon deep in the rabbit’s gut.
He’d wanted to do this whilst the rabbit was still alive - how long would it have lived? At what point would the tiny, dark heart stop pumping? How long before the beautiful, bright blood stopped squirting over his dirty hands?
As it was, the slick blood - still warm of course - mixed with his own (he hadn’t bothered washing the cut and plasters were for babies). He’s disappointed of course, it would be so much more fun to do this with rabbit still breathing, but it’ll be worth it he tells himself. Tomorrow, when the crow comes. Somebody is going to have a stomach ache to die for.

Word Count: 550
Prompt: story MUST contain the words: CROW/S, SUPERGLUE, TABLE, FLESH, FISHING LINE