Clipped Wings

         As he sat on the curb in front of his house, a Budweiser and a Marlboro took turns clouding his mind, and this frat boy mixture slowly began to twist his thought process. Keith Livingston was twenty-three years old and still living with his parents in the house that he grew up in, and over time the alcohol and nicotine was a nice way of escaping the reason for the scars and bruises that decorated his back and face. Suddenly a bird hopped itself on the curb next to Keith and jerked it's head about in every which direction like birds tend to do, flapping it's wings a few times in a welcoming gesture. Keith noticed the bird was limping around in a Tiny Tim-like fashion that seemed to amuse and entertain him.
         He let out a playful chuckle, placing his beloved bottle down and reaching for the handicapped creature. He gently picked up the bird in his hands, and balanced the harmless life form in the palm of his right hand. He raised the bird to eye level, and for a second their eyes met. "You bastard," Keith snapped, and without hesitation he threw the bird on the concrete and raised his left foot in the air. The helpless bird flapped in a sudden state of panic, limping in circles as if it were a cat on the hunt for it's own tail. Suddenly the door to the house swung open.

         "Get your ass in here you good-for-nuthin' lazy sumna' bitch, I oughta give you a piece o' my mind boy," the outraged shadow from the doorway yelled. Keith gave him the middle finger from his safe distance on the curb, his weapon of choice when it came to dealing with his father's abuse. He crammed the last few drags of his cigarette into one long puff, and tossed it on the ground, his foot putting out the bird and the cigarette in one quick stomp. "Put ya out of your misery bird, you can thank me later," Keith said out loud to no one. Feathers were still floating slowly to the ground as he stumbled into his apple red 1983 Jeep Cherokee Laredo, with his beer bottle again accompanying him, and took off into the young midnight, paying no mind to his father's blur of rage running after him.

         "What'll it be kiddo."
         "Just keep the Bud coming Willy, you know the drill," murmured the now intoxicated
Keith from his seat at the local bar, the famous "Wet Whistle Willy's." He surveyed the scene and noticed the regulars in their usual positions: Ned Burkovitz was in the corner talking to the juke box, and Larry and Mark Earlmire were arguing over who gets stripes and who gets solids at the pool table. Then he noticed a stranger unaccompanied at the opposite end of the bar stool line up. She wore a tight pink shirt with cartoon angel wings on the back, and the words "Little Angel" in light blue fluffy cloud letters on the front.
         "Never gonna happen," Willy said, sliding a cold one towards Keith.
         "Speak for yourself old man," Keith replied, snatching the beer from the table and leaving his seat. He went through a quick check-up, repairing the collar of his over-sized black button up short-sleeve shirt complete with flames and eight balls, followed by a quick comb of the hair with his tarred fingernails. Breathing in deeply, he approached the lonely blonde with his mirror-rehearsed strut and his best attempt at a million-dollar smile.
         "Baby somebody better call God, cuz he's missin an angel!" Keith announced, taking a seat next to his target. Laughter roared from her lips, and even Ned took his eyes off the juke box to see what was happening. With strawberry daiquri in hand, she left Keith to wail in the embarassment he just created for himself, her laughter being replaced by that of the regulars who were used to getting a few cheap laughs off Keith's failed pick up attempts.
         "Some birds are just hard to cage, Keith," said Willy, sliding another one to his favorite customer, for obvious reasons.
         "No Willy, I'm puttin my foot down. This bird ain't flying nowhere." Keith tossed a few twenties on the bar and fondled his car keys on the way out, keeping his distance from the young blonde stranger. He climbed into his Jeep and turned the car on, leaving the headlights off while his eyes followed her voluptuous curves as she walked to her little red Ford Mustang, bright pink fluffy dice hanging appropriately from the mirror.

         With the top down and her hair blowing in all directions, the Mustang's speed was hard to keep up with, but Keith soon found himself right on her tail as they entered the apartment complex where she resided. Her blue-green eyes glanced into her rear view mirror and she recognized the pattern on the shirt of her recent bar reject in the car behind her. In a panic she flew from her car and ran towards her apartment with Keith on a dead sprint behind her. Just before she reached the door he tackled her to the ground and put his hands over her mouth and straddled her so she could not escape.
         "Laugh now!" Keith growled, positioning his knees on her arms that were flailing violenty in the air. Her eyes, now filled with terror, searched for help with no luck, coming in contact with Keith's for a brief second.
         "You stupid bitch," Keith snapped, delivering a hard blow to the girl's head, knocking her out and leaving her lifeless underneath him. He scooped her off the grass and placed her in the front seat of his car, driving to a nearby park he remembered spotting on the way
up there. As he pulled out of the apartment complex, he heard a moan coming from the passenger seat. Suddenly his ears were filled with the high-pitched squeal made only by a female's voice, and the back of his hand slapped her hard across the face once more. The Jeep, headlights off again, slowly came to a stop along the roadside near the park. Keith retrieved his blonde rag doll and dropped her under a tree, tearing her clothes off in the process. He pulled his belt off and wrapped it around her neck, tightening it to heighten the sense of power he was now feeling. He had his way with her, and sat next to her under the tree with the smell of tabacco now filling the park air. He tossed the cigarette aside and
picked her up again, planning on taking her back to her apartment and leaving her on her doorstep. Her body was cold, and he realized that she wasn't breathing. Keith panicked and dropped her back on the ground, not knowing what to do and walking in circles around the tree, sputtering every type of profanity imaginable. He had no intention of killing the girl, he just wanted to have the last laugh that evening. He picked the dead body up and stuffed it into a nearby trash can, jumped into his Jeep and drove back to his house, never to mention the events of that night to anyone.

         A bird perched itself on the trash can where the maggots and larvae were starting to migrate towards. It jerked it's head about in every which direction like birds tend to do, flapping it's wings a few times in a welcoming gesture. The bird looked down into the trash can, briefly coming in contact with the pair of lifeless blue-green eyes that glanced up at the moonlight from within.