I don't remember being born.
I do remember the moments after, the struggle to walk and the smell of milk. I stopped before suckling, my purple-gray eyes studying with interest the teat in front of me. There was a perverse curiosity in waiting to see how long my stomach could wait.
Not long, but I am young.
I drank deeply until I was sated, and then nipped at my mother sharply with a defiant squeal. Already I am impatient of my childhood.
I don't wander far from Killgore. This is more self preservation than anything else, because I long to find out what all the things I am smelling and seeing are. How they work, what they look like when smashed, how to take them apart.
I glance at my mother, and then at myself. We are framed similarly, but I am a dark bay with purple climbing up my legs and nose. I shake my head, and turn quickly, trying to catch a glimpse to ascertain the color of my tragically short and fluffy tail. Like a bunny, I snort derisively. The effort makes me lose my balance and I crumple to the side. Purple. I am purple on my mane and tail.
I don't jump up right away. Instead, I rub my face into the dirt to see if I can change the color of purple on my nose. A small chirp comes feebly from beneath a nearby tree, and it is this that pulls me to my feet.
A small thing with wings is flapping feebly beneath the branches. I look up. A bigger winged thing and her other little wings are chirruping madly. What makes them do that, I wonder. I glance down at the squalling thing with feathers. Slowly, judging its reaction, I put my hoof on the baby bird's back, between his wings. A loud crunch, a screech and silence.
I wonder, what made it do that? Would every small thing with wings make the crunch-screech sound? I glance up at the others birds, cocking my head. I nicker.
Come down, feathered ones. I only want to understand.
the academic executioner