Schadenfreude

I watched the murder of a bird the other day and it frightened me. I was leaving the mall after a haircut and as I walked back to my car I noticed two little songbirds, no bigger than my palm, light brown, completely average. They darted about in the air together and twittered at one another as the blinding sun made me squint. That's probably why I didn't see the car coming. So, when I heard the pop, I figured it was a pebble being flung by a tire on the SUV. No one stopped walking, including myself, until I began to cross the road and saw the bird.

It lay dead, freshly smeared across the pavement. Bits of feathers fluttered in the breeze like flakes of ash in the night air. The legs were twisted at obscene angles. One eye lay on the pavement, the other bulged from its socket. The breast and abdomen of the tiny bird were torn open and the reddest blood I have ever seen painted a short streak up the black asphalt.

I almost laughed. The odds of that little bird darting in front of that SUV, at that moment, hitting the tire at exactly the right angle to be spread like a plated sauce in Hell's Kitchen were incredible. The mangled body was fascinating to me and I stooped down to examine it further, noting every detail eagerly. I very nearly took out my phone to send a Snapchat of the tiny remains, but I was stopped by a noise.

The other bird began to chirp. Hesitantly at first, then louder and more insistent, it called and called, searching for its mate. I looked toward the overgrown bush in front of the Starbucks, then down at the dead bird at my feet, and I became terribly afraid of myself.