Before I completed the 6 whole steps it took to get to the only window in my apartment, I noticed the huge crack in the glass, resembling a lightning bolt with a sword piercing though it. I also noticed the blood. And there was a lot of it.
I'm not a huge fan of light. I have only one small lamp in my entire apartment. And even that is usually turned off. However, my room is usually pretty well lit. The illumination that cascades in and drenches my belongings with pink and yellow light is supplied by a ridiculously large neon sign about 10 feet to the left of my window sill. "THE SANDMAN: Authentical Food Karaoke" is what it reads. And no, that's not a misprint. AUTHENTICAL. I always got slightly delighted at the thought of "Food Karaoke" and imagining an apple fritter belting out "Material Girl" in front of a bunch of bizarre, talking-food-fetishists who get yelled at by management if they "try to grope the donut." But despite living here almost as long as I've been on my own, I have never set foot inside of The Sandman, most likely because, like the larva in the jumping bean, I would probably just die of disappointment, as there would be no dancing pastries with beautiful voices. I SHOULD thank them, though, for basically paying for my electric bill and simultaneously providing extremely dramatic and colorful studio lighting in case anyone wanted to come film CSI in here or anything. The lighting is annoying because of the sheer amount of it that sneaks in. But, aesthetically, I guess it's pretty.
When that SLAM hit my window, however, the intruding light had minimized instantly. The blood was so thick it had stopped anything, even radiance, from fully entering.
I opened the window and looked down on the sill, which was offset under my window by a few feet, and saw the pigeon, obviously dead. I'm not a pigeon-vet, but have seen enough dead pigeons to know that an almost unrecognizable face, a pint of blood and wings spread out equals dead bird. It was blankly staring up at me behind his beak that was smashed and….flowered. I can't think of another word to describe it. In old Looney Tunes cartoons, when Elmer Fudd would light up a cigar, and Bugs Bunny would provide the torch, and the next thing you know, a small explosion erupts and when the smoke clears, Elmer's cigar is ripped and curled up in every direction like a flower. That was the beak.
I had wondered what had drove the pigeon to commit suicide by glass. Maybe it wasn't suicide. Maybe it spotted something inside my apartment and my trusty body guard, the window, defended its treasure as it dove. Or perhaps…it was pigeon-on-pigeon MURDER! And someone WILL have to film Pigeon CSI here. Pigeons with high tech flashlights, cameras, and witty remarks would be hilarious.
I looked up into the sky and usually, the sky is populated, even at 6 am, with some type of bird-life. But today, nothing.
I went to pick up the pigeon to clean it up and give it proper disposal. I couldn't bear to just leave it there, rotting. And I couldn't just push it off of the sill, watching it fall 3 stories, possibly giving one of the vagrants that constantly patrol outside of my building a pigeon hat. So I picked it up with both hands, and felt the last bit of life seep out onto the ledge where it was laid. I brought it closer to me and reached up to close the window, when I felt a burst of air inflate the bust of the bird and he emitted a high pitched screech that cracked my window even more. Instantly, his body thrashed around in my hand, squirming like the outraged, 10 pound maggot from Cronenberg's "The Fly", and what was left of his destroyed beak, got a hold of my thumb and bit down so hard I tensed up and let go, and the pigeon, full of life, flew back out of my apartment, off to live its life as the elephant man of pigeons. I apologized out loud to it as it escaped, and I shut the window…