The Birds and the Bees (The Birdman Companion Series Book 1) Page 3
It was the truth, but Gregory had always thought his mom and the truth were casual acquaintances. The wall of alcohol she built to shield her from reality, a testament to living a lie.
“They were the same when your dear father died,” she said. “Everyone turns up to church because it’s easy. We won’t see them in the months ahead. Not when our lives truly get hard.”
He took her hand and squeezed it tight, feeling a rush of warmth and love. While the pastor shuffled his notes, Gregory bent low enough to rub his forehead against her shoulder. Like a cat prompting an owner for a pat.
Suddenly, his mind opened to broadcast Layla. Ten years old, sitting on her father’s shoulders for a pony ride. Both smiling and happy. Gregory running in step with his mother, side by side.
A family outing to the beach. A day spent watching the sunlight tossed about on the choppy waves. Sand that felt good between his toes. Before it turned into an irritant on the long drive back home.
That day had been filled with so much joy, so much love. It welled up inside Gregory until it burst out into a flood of tears at his loss.
He remembered the essence of Layla. His little sister. The tiny shadow that had trailed him on every journey. His palm tingled with the imprint of her pudgy hand. Always needing the comfort of her older brother to feel safe.
“I want to see her,” he whispered to his mother. His voice wracked with sadness and distress. She nodded and pushed at his shoulder to encourage him out of the pew.
The redwood casket sat on steel runners at the front of the church. Originally wheeled sideways to the congregation, at some point it had been turned lengthways. Ready for the pall bearers journey out.
Although there were whispers, Gregory ignored them. Instead, he heeded a voice inside that had been deadened in recent years. He walked up beside his sister’s coffin and opened up the half lid.
She looks like she’s sleeping.
The echo from a thousand televised funerals danced inside his head. To Gregory, she didn’t look asleep. Not the way he’d watched her chest rise and fall over the years. Not the raucous snore when she had a cold, and breathing only came with difficulty. Not the soft whisper of breath when she was napping on the couch.
The mortician had painted her face. Maybe he’d meant to do it lightly, but to Gregory’s eyes, it looked plastered on, an inch thick.
For a second he wondered if the funeral home had dressed Layla in three-inch stiletto’s as well. Made her into the image of a complete whore.
Gregory pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. He licked at a corner and started to wipe the gunk from Layla’s face. The whispers from the crowd increased, but he didn’t care. His mother was right. Despite the protests of support and “being there for you,” after today they’d disappear.
As he wiped at his little sister’s cheek, some cotton shifted inside her mouth. Instead of plump, her face now sank in a hollow on one side. Like a pensioner who’d taken their teeth out.
But at least she looked the way nature intended. Not some media showcase of a teenage girl.
Inside his pocket, Gregory had tucked the feather bracelet he’d made beside her so long ago. He pulled it out and looked at it, the taupe feathers catching the glow of sunlight through the leadlight windows.
“Turns out, I made it for you after all,” he whispered.
He pulled one of her hands free from its crossed position and slipped the elastic onto her wrist. Bending forward, Gregory placed his lips against her sunken cheek. Her skin was soft, giving, and beneath the perfumed odor of spray, Layla stunk.
For a second, her eyes pulled wide with fear, flashed in panicked memory across his brain. The gurgle as he pulled his knee away from her bleeding mouth. The warmth of spunk inside his jeans as he came while his fingers dug into the soft skin of her neck. While his nails pressed deep against the tendons, knotted like cords.
He reached across and snagged the handle for the lid. Careful not to drop it and cause a bang, Gregory pulled it across his sister’s face.
<<<< >>>>
Thank you for reading!
I hope you enjoyed this short prequel story in my Birdman Series. If you’re looking for another instalment, please check on the following page for other titles in this series.
Looking for something a bit different?
If you enjoy short stories with a bit more of a romantic twist (and far less murder), then I can highly recommend the Goshen Springs series from Claire Johnson. Will you end up on team Aaron or team Drew?
The series contains the following shorts, so far:
Welcome to Goshen Springs
Andrew's View
About the Author - Lee Hayton
Traveling is a great expander of ideas and the understanding of other cultures, and Lee Hayton finds traveling in other writer’s worlds the most exciting and fruitful journeys of all.
She’d love for you to join her and explore these new worlds together, never knowing for sure if around the next corner is a sight ready to curdle your blood or make you explode into laughter.
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