Stool Pigeon

It was unbearably quiet outside, enough that the dull throb of his headache was loud enough to sound like a full orchestra in the sanctity of his head.

He hated the countryside so very much. It held so many secrets, so much of his past. The twisting of the knife was that they had dropped him here, of all the possible places where he could have been hiding. A new name. A new life. A new world for his sake, for his safety. And after what they'd done to his family, he believed them.

This was the only place he ever felt safe. In this large barn. Not in the one story, three bedroom house he'd been granted to live in. No, here was perfect. Here smelled of animal leavings, and of hay, the must-filled building was enough to give him at least the semblance of feeling safe. He could close his eyes, and not listen to the soft chirrups of crickets outside announcing the nighttime slowly encroaching, covering the green and gold of the land in a darkened, shadowy, almost sinister hue.

But here in the barn, it felt like just a hint of his soul could be put back. Perhaps there was something redeemable there. As a chicken leapt onto his stomach as he lay in the hay, with a gentle pecking. It was almost funny – he'd seen the chickens rip apart a live mouse just the other day, and now, standing on him, it just canted its head to the side like it had hidden its monstrosity behind those vacant eyes.

A hoot made him raise his chin to the rafters above, where the hay was stored. A single, large eye opened in a heart-shaped face. There was a fluttering of gray and peach colored wings that stretched impressively, before the great beast that kept the place safe of rats took to the skies. From a distance, it always looked safer. Those talons were not quite so impressive as it took flight. A difference in birds.

And him? He was a songbird. He'd sung such a sweet tune that here he was, in the country where he'd grown up, in this vacant and even ground that bore resemblance to every other place. It looked the same as the place he'd grown up at. Down to the last feather on the back of the barn owl.

That should have brought him comfort, but it didn't. His world was more complicated than that. It didn't feel like he deserved this, this... safety. Maybe that's why he was out here. With the animals. With the shit, with the other birds like him that sang their song in order to continue to stay alive. Because deep down, he knew this was all he deserved.

When he'd arrived home, to find what had happened...

No.

His eyelids squeezed shut to the point of making red pinpricks appear to his vision. The gentle pecking of the chicken was barely noticeable under the extreme pressure right behind his eyes. It was almost a defense mechanism, the headaches. They would block out the horrific memories, to provide worth to the worthless. Any feeling was better than the emptiness he'd felt before the authorities arrived.

Before they'd dragged him, screaming, away from the wreckage of what he'd called home.

He'd sung so beautifully. He had saved information, he'd handed over the thumb drive he kept at the ready, he'd given them passwords for everything. Everything his employers had been afraid of him doing, he did. They had given him no reason not to betray them.

Other than his worthless, pitiful life, and his never-ending headache.

He was not a religious man, but he prayed. He prayed that his payment to the authorities would be enough, that justice would be served. Although, if justice were actually served, he would be in jail by now as well. He knew what his job was, he knew of the danger, of the illegality of it. He hadn't told his wife what was going on. He was a fool to think that the illusion of safety could be used as a shield.

The sound of the door slowly sliding open wasn't enough to break him from his stupor. The slightest creak of the hinges was enough to make him flinch, the sound still painful to take in. It was necessary.

“Jimmy.”

The single name from a deep voice didn't so much as make him cringe. The calm, the quiet was so indelibly painful, almost as much as the noise was. And yet, there was something so refreshing about it, a bit of rest, perhaps.

His eyes closed, not clenched shut as they had been before. Calmly, as if he were sleeping. The click of the hammer didn't even make him twitch.

The hoot, however, did.

The ache in his head increased, as the shot rang out. He expected the pain to hit somewhere else, and yet, it did not. A soft thunk in the hay sounded next to him, and his eyes flashed open.

The owl. It was there. Its creamy feathers were stained red against its spread wing, and it laid deathly still. His assassin looked startled, perhaps, as if he had just fired in response to the noise, and not hurt the owl on purpose. It didn't matter intention, in the grand scheme of things.

The scream he let out echoed through the barn. It was pained, yes, but pain and anger, fear, and that sheer desire to make things right. How he got to his feet.

Why he was so strong, so driven.

What made him grab for the gun.

How he was so strong as to turn the weapon on its wielder.

The banging in his head, and echoing through the barn, continued. He didn't count. He didn't stop until there was stillness, and silence other than the repeated clicking coming from an empty chamber. Until he wasn't sure if the wetness on his face was tears or blood.

His breathing was shallow, hoarse, and he turned slowly. The world slowly faded from the redness of his silent fury. That fury he'd kept restrained during other times of tragedy.

A soft hoot was what made it stop.

His booted feet crunched through the dry hay and dirt and shit, towards the still, yet stirring bird.

The gun fell from his shuddering hand, as he moved to scoop up the bird. One foot gently kicked away one of the opportunistic chickens, leading to an angry cluck.

The owl's large, heart-shaped face looked up at him with a questioning and croaked noise.

“Let's get you into the house,” he said quietly, as he walked out of the barn. Stepping over the body of his would be assassin. Leave him for the chickens.

It didn't even occur to him that his headache was gone.