An affinity for birds was the only interest he and his mother shared. Other than, that is, their ability to ruffle the other’s feathers.
Growing up, he felt she lined his nest with too much pillowy down. He always preferred the bare essentials of twigs and leaves.
She was always dismayed by his pecking nature. He pecked at his food, he pecked at movies and books, he pecked at people’s private lives.
It shocked nobody he flew the coop upon graduation. Nor was anyone surprised she didn’t suffer “empty nest syndrome” and sang every morning. Last summer he attended her funeral where, from a rickety wooden crate, he released seven white doves.
Then killed them all with a shotgun.
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