Red sap slowly drooled from his mouth like syrup from a freshly tapped maple. The thick blood trickled forth from the gap created by missing teeth in his smile. As it pooled in the back of his throat, the muscles in his pharynx quivered. He needed to breathe. Quickly, he spat out the source, and drew in the revolting air tainted with death.

The bitten head of the parakeet rested a few feet away from the corpse; the two separated by a Jackson Pollock of blood droplets that spanned the entire surface of the kitchen floor. He grabbed the head and attached it to the body. Nothing.

Why didn’t it chirp? He thought. Why didn’t it open it’s eyes?

His pet parakeet, Fina, didn’t wake up. His six-year-old mind didn’t understand. Ozzy made it look so cool, so casual, and with the arrival of his first few teeth, he had to try it.

What went wrong? He looked at the coagulating puddles of blood. Maybe it’s the parakeet, he always uses doves.

His mouth stained with blood, Tim waited for his mom to come home.