Chapter 4

The fourth entry was written by Combo. He isn't half as fucked up as the events in this chapter might have you believe. As far as I know he has never... well, I won't ruin it for you. Enjoy

CHAPTER FOUR: PIGEON FEED

A part of me wishes I had a chance to visit the scene of the crime. Maybe then my mind could be at rest. Rest from the haunting visions of her naked body in the playground of Madahorn park before daybreak. Two Investigators described the scene to me, alternating between pieces of description.

“She was just lying there" a short stocky trench coated man with a lisp explained "on her back, naked. One bullet hole in each scchoulder and one on each schhin.

"The fucker wanted her alive," his partner wearing a tan slacks and a blue tweed jacket added. "Her body was covered with mixture of blood and pigeon shit. Apparently, she was coated with bird feed and the pigeons ate away at most of her skin and fucking shat it out all over her.”

"Her clothes and bag were nowhere to be found" spat the first one.

The news hit me like a malignant tumor. At first, I was in denial. I had spoken to her the night before. We had dinner plans that evening. Her death was too much like a twisted murder novel to feel the pain at first. I was just waiting to get furious with them when they would tell me that they were joking.

They were not. She was killed. Bullets, entrance wounds, exit wounds, her faint heart pumping blood outside of her body. Birdseed. Birdseed. Eaten to death by pigeons.

The tumor slowly grew. The pain became more excruciating by the day. It increasingly dominated over any healthy part of my brain.

I counted. 14 times I missed my bus stop thinking about the mess in the playground that was once my fiancé.

Everyday I visit that scene. On some days her humors looks more red than white, others, more white than pink. Some days she lay there unscathed and I watch the whole scene from the beginning.

Her murderer has a number of faces as well. Sometimes it's a delirious homeless man, black and abnormally tall – hunched over with a limp. He wears a heavy black winter jacket with feathers jutting out of the lining. He watched her jogging through the park every morning. He wakes up in a drunken haze one day and waits for her. As she runs by he aims five feet in front of her hesitates a second to allow her to run into the line of fire. The bullets smacks her in her in the right leg , piercing her leggings. Her momentum carries her another step and she stumbles and falls like a hunted a dear. He limps over satisfies with his aim and starts to laugh.

“How dat feel, Bitch?” I try my hardest to stop myself from conjuring up how he removed her clothes, what he did with her helpless body. Usually I am unsuccessful.

Did she try to fight him? She was always fighter. Where'd the homeless man get the gun?

Other times, the murderer is this Russian mafia man. He is fat and has white hair earlier than normal. He wears a gray suit and a oddly colored bluish-green shirt, convexed from his gut. He was sent by someone, who was sent by someone to kill her in the most gruesome way possible.

"You don't fuck vis us Adelene," he mispronounces her name, the last time she will ever hear it.

“Thees is vut happens ven you fuck vis us." Each sentence begins and ends with the gunpowder explosion in the glock's stainless steel barrel. He rips off her running suit then takes out a plastic shopping bag filled with bird seeds. He doesn't bother untying the double knot and just rips it open, carefully making sure the seeds fall evenly along her torso and thighs.

But what could the mafia ever want from her. She had no real money. I have no real money. What the fuck could anyone ever want from her?

The pigeons always look the same. They come instantly in a cloud of fluttering gray and purple and green and fight for a spot on her flesh. Twenty or so minutes later, they begin to fly away.

And dawn breaks.