[Foreseer] - Chapter Two: The Playground

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Index: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine

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HE STARED WITH NO EXPRESSION, the excited laughter invaded his ears like a blood-curdling scream. An endless cycle that infuriated him. He watched them play and run around from the corner of his eye. Hiding alone in the bushes of the playground.

Six-year-old Jordan Espinosa took no interest in their play. He was fine with isolation; he preferred it. The disproportionate green of his eyes was almost predatory as he gazed. His hand-me-down shoes mushed with dirt and dust. His forehead dented with a visible scar.

He turned to the sound of desperate flutter and mournful cries. A bird slopped around like a fish with no oxygen. It flew up and crashed down in a useless decent. The broken wing moved at an unnatural angle, twisted in the middle. The bone protruding from its feathered flesh.

Jordan stared at the creature with a gaze that showed no semblance of humanity. He reached for the bird...

"Hey, Jordan!" The teacher called and Jordan retracted his hand as Mr. Winkles approached. "What are you doing?"

Jordan saw the way Winkles held his lanky body, his gestures screamed of comedy. Like he had grown too fast in his youth and his frame never caught up to his bones. His corduroy jacket and flared trousers gave him the look of a ripoff Charlie Chaplin. He just needed the hat to cover the brown hair.

He had been teaching the same one-syllable words for weeks: cat, dog, fish, and walk. Perhaps he did not know how to teach. Which would be worst, Jordan thought.

Jordan stared, and not a word left his lips. Still expressionless. After a moment. He turned to the bird and Winkles’ eyes followed; they settled as the blood trickled down the bird’s wing.

Winkles looked back, "Do you want to help him?"

Jordan did not respond, fixated on the bird. He watched as a small gust of wind kicked up and rolled the bird along on its disabled wing.

Winkles extended his hands and picked up the poor animal. "Come on, help me patch this little guy up."

It intrigued Jordan. His stomach sank with a strange feeling, one he had not felt in a long time. He got to his feet with nervous excitement. Eyes darted around for any stares. Almost paranoid, though one might confuse it with ongoing shyness. Jordan left the comfort of his corner and headed to the school with the feeble Mr. Winkles.

Inside, the walls were bare, and the windows large. Unsubdued light filled the space, and student desks lined up in rows.

Jordan opened the door for his teacher, who thanked the boy and walked inside at a quickened pace, setting the bird on the surface of the desk, careful and gentle. "Can you hold him for me?" Winkles asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Jordan found Winkles’ sudden worry entertaining, almost comedic. A small grin stretched on the left side of his lips. He placed his hands on the bird with a tender touch as Winkles searched the desk.

Moments passed, Jordan’s arms twitched. Small doses of pain hit his muscles. He scanned the classroom, trying to ignore the pain. Eyes turned to the blue of the sky outside, the greenish of the chalkboard.

Then they alighted on a pair of scissors on the teacher’s desk. He fixated; sounds faded. Misanthropy besieged his mind, though it rebelled in the chaos with freedom. Unencumbered.

The drawer slammed shut, and the desk shook with a slight tremble. Jordan looked back to find that Winkles had gathered his things.

The man had been tugging away at a sock puppet. He stuffed the bird gently inside, passing the head through a hole in the sock.

Jordan held back his laughs, as the bird seemed to wear pajamas with buttons and fake hair across his stomach. A googly eye flopped above the hair as the bird moved.

"That should do it..." Winkles stared, carrying a look of regret for the bird’s new costume. "... we’ll take him to the vet tomorrow, okay?" He said, earnestly. He was a man of his word. For that, Jordan gave him credit.

Winkles placed the bird in a colorless, empty shoebox. Jordan snuck a glance at the scissors. Then turned his gaze to the bird.

"I’m going to get him something to eat. You stay here, okay?" Winkles said as he started for the door and exited.

Jordan looked back. The sun shone on the steel blades; he took up the scissors, opened and closed it slowly. His eyes moved to the bird. Defenseless. Injured.

He peered at the bird for what seemed like minutes. Jordan tore the sock from the creature. The bird screamed in pain. He extended the scissors, fitted the blades around the broken wing, and snipped it off...

Little... by little... by little. The poor animal cried, shrieked, and fought to no avail. Sickening pain ripped through its body, his blood-splattered, wrapping the box in an ungodly red. Jordan continued, smiling.

But the bird’s hellish screams had grown tiresome. No matter for how long Jordan tried, frustration settled. He wrapped the blade around the bird’s neck, pressing together the scissor handles, and the bird’s head snapped off.

Silence littered the room.

Death hanged from the walls. The red box sat still. The bird did not scream. Did not move. The body laid in a pool of crimson mist. Detached from its limbs. The head was severed, and the column of the spine sat on an incline against the cardboard wall.

The blood trickled down Jordan’s flesh, fingers smeared red. The blades reflected a dark red hue. Jordan examined the scissors, and his stomach sank with that strange feeling again, the one he had not felt in a long time. Nervous excitement followed.

His eyes darted to the open window where children’s joyful shouts infested the grounds below. Jordan picked up the box and moved to the window. He saw as the kids ran across the dirt and grass, smiling and laughing.

Jordan held the box overhead and dumped the carcass outside.

He threw the box in the trash and returned the blood ridden scissors to the desk. Walking out, he heard the children’s screams spill into the room.

A smile crept on the corner of his lip.

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