Hawk Roosting

“It is safe in here,” the mouse repeated to itself as the eternal chorus of a song stuck in its head. “It’s safe…”

The place was dark and damp, a safe den where it lived and where it found the ideal refuge from his menacing claws; his deadly grip that could end its existence. He did it with its family, one by one, tortured them; decapitated them. It could still hear them screeching shouts of resistance, “creeeee! creeeee!,” their last sound as they unsuccessfully tried to climb the peak of life, their lives. That tree trunk was its home, a place where it was born and it refused to leave. Home, the place where you are supposed to be happy and unafraid…

The woods were quiet that morning: the usual crackling of branches as the birds rested on them, the river slowly caressed its pebbles on its final trip to find freedom and the wind whistled its way through the tree leaves announcing its invisible power. The mouse lived in a tiny little hole; a hole made in the trunk of the tallest tree the woods had ever seen. So did the hawk. Atop of the tallest tree the woods had ever seen, the bird dominated the land. His ochre sharp round eyes were constantly aware of any move, like a soldier in his sentry box, and his majestic grip firmly cut through his branch, his throne. He was the king; the land moved and adapted its shape to his presence, like a hide-and-seek game for survival. With just spreading his wings the creatures ran for their lives, looking for shelter, as if the alarm of an imminent bombing at war. And that morning he was especially peckish.

The mouse was thirsty; it could hear the river singing its soaking song. Its throat was a desert in need of rain. It had to leave home soon. The idea of leaving the safety of its den was torture. “What if he sees me this time?” “What if my legs stop responding?” It wasn’t getting any younger; if its movements were once quick and precise, nowadays the short trip to the vessel felt like a hard and painful expedition. “He won’t see me...” frightfully responded to itself, “Not this time.”

Its tiny head slowly showed up through the bark hole; its body still rested in the safety of the dark. “Don’t look up…” “Is he there?” With decision the mouse rapidly leaped out of its cave and ran as fast as its will permitted; it could hear its heart pounding in its head like the drums of a death march. Half way to the river the rodent rested under a leaf, exhausted, a momentary base camp for survival. A few drops of refreshing morning dew fell on its head, running down its face meeting its arid mouth. With a quick slurp, it swallowed it; it tasted like heaven. “Did he see me?” it wondered. Curiosity forced it to have a quick peek up at his branch and yes, the hawk was still there, combing the land with his ghostly eyes. “I can do it…” The animal was just a few yards from the finish line; it winded up its power and ran like a bullet towards the river. “Almost there…” and suddenly his shadow; a perfect figure of a bird of prey precisely drawn on the floor, and above the mouse’s head, his razor-sharp hands rapidly grasped its soft and delicate body. Then darkness.

The rodent could be heard screaming all its way up to the tallest tree the woods had ever seen, defenceless. His claws were painfully asphyxiating it, “No please, no!” it cried. The hawk reached his home, and with a sudden brisk, opened his hooked fingers letting go of the animal making it land on his branch, his watchtower. His eyes fixated sharply in those of the mouse and with a thunder sounding voice he asked: “Who do you think you are to stop my actions?” The rodent with a shaking sounding voice replied: “I’m just a mouse please, don’t kill me sir, I’d do what you wish but don’t eat me!” It was the first time an animal survived the hawk’s attack and it was begging for survival. The bird stunned in disbelief let his heavy left hand rest on the little mouse’s body, immobilising it. A little drop of warm blood heated up the rodent’s face; it was badly injured. It could feel a crisp pain on its head as the hawk repeatedly banged its head against the thick branch, it was excruciating. “You will do as I say, filthy ball of putrid fur!” the hawk furiously howled, “I’m your God! I’m everything! You don’t want to die, do you? Then respect and serve me for the rest of your life and I won’t kill you!” The mouse couldn’t believe what it was hearing; the hawk was offering not to kill it. The price to pay was high, it had to sacrifice its freedom in exchange of its life, but its answer was almost instantaneous, “Yes sir, I will serve you until my last day, I will worship you and will do as you say” it sobbed.

Every day was a little piece of hell for the mouse, atop of the tallest tree the woods had ever seen the hawk mistreated, threatened and punished the animal, as it was a chew toy. He ordered all sorts of humiliating tasks that the mouse had to perform without resistance: it had to clean his claws, eat his parasites and even used as a lure for the hawk to hunt other animals. The rodent’s existence was diminished; it was weak. What once was a shiny and fluffy coat turned into a worn down leather jacket. Its eyes were lifeless; its moves were as of those approaching their final seconds, waiting for their end by firing squad. It could hardly remember when it was free, when the sun shone its existence. Now it was only shadows, a cold and dark shadow play modelling its destiny.

She woke up screaming, it was cold. As she tried to pull up the bed covers, she felt a sharp pain in her arms. Everything hurt. She tried to get out of bed but her legs couldn’t move. “What time is it?” she wondered. The moon was observing her, like a giant hazy eye through her bedroom window; a light summer breeze swung back and forth the curtains as if waving goodbye. As her eyes got used to the darkness, she found enough power to get out of bed. She walked heavily across the room and opened the bathroom door. When they looked for a property fifteen years ago, the en-suite was the feature that drove their decision to buy that flat. Now that room was just a witness of her miserable life. As she approached the mirror her heart heavily pounded and a thin line of blood ran down her face. She looked at herself and cried. Cried heavily, anxious. Choking with sadness. He had done it again. The memory was just a blur, but the wounds where sharp and clear. A violet painting of pain carved her face. Her left eye was shut, her head still bleeding. “Did he use the bat again?” she couldn’t remember. She washed her face and came out of the bathroom, her little hamster looked at her from its cage as it was happily running round its tiny wheel, ignorant about what was happening to her. She felt jealous. “Things would be much easier being you” she dreamed. On top of the brown chair sat his jacket, with that horrible hawk printed on its back. He was her husband, judge and executioner; sleeping next to her, killing her slowly. She went back to sleep thinking about the times he loved her, the times when sleeping with him was like a piece of heaven, atop of the tallest building the town had ever seen.