I've got these little bitty pieces of broken ceramic in my hands, and some of the fine white dust is coming off them, like chalk dust. I never thought I would ever willingly break an object of such immense value, and especially one that has been with my family for the past six generations.
It was a moderately sized ceramic bird, which weighed about a kilogram. It was breathtaking to behold, yet had a disturbing aura about it. The bird had red eyes, which seemed to burn into your very soul.
At the beginning of this fine summer's day, I woke up with no intentions of breaking into my parent's bedroom and smashing their prized ceramic bird on the bed post, but it was after spying a small series of grooves on the tail that I decided to investigate.
Upon closer inspection of the grooves, I noticed they, in fact, took the shape of letters, roughly carved, but letters nonetheless.They read:
So, without a second thought about it, I raised the bird above my head and brought it down upon my parent's bed post.
I discarded the pieces underneath the bed. A small object lay in the pile of broken ceramic that had landed on the floor. I knelt down and plucked the object from the pile. It was a small block of some variety of black stone, with a phrase carved roughly into the front.It read:
Upon reading the word, I took off outside, my legs practically carrying me to my mother's rose garden. My hands drove them into the centre of the garden bed and started tearing out clumps of roses and earth.
After several minutes of mindless digging, I pulled a long, heavy piece of wood from the garden bed. I brought it before my eyes and stared at it.It read:
GO TO THE ROAD.
"No!" I gasped, my hands caked in dirt, sweat pouring down my brow. No sooner had I spoke, my hands tossed the wood aside and immediately began digging in the left hand side of the rose garden. I attempted to stop, but it was beyond my power. Before long I produced another piece of wood, this time bearing the words:
YOU HAVE NO CHOICE.
"What?" I said before I leapt out of the garden and began bolting towards the road. I couldn't stop myself. As my feet reached the road's edge, one of my toes caught on a crack in the tar. I went hurtling to the ground, skidding to a halt, battered and bruised in the middle of the road.
I tried to get up, but I couldn't. Then, my hands came alive suddenly and drove themselves into the road!
My fingers gradually scratched away the solid bitumen, until they were bleeding, having been worn down almost to the bone.
They still did not stop digging. My legs were choosing to disobey my mental command to lift me up off the road. Eventually, when my fingers were virtually gone, from under the road I pulled, with great difficulty, due to my injured hands, a small slip of paper with something written on it. But before I could bring it to my eyes to read, a loud, terrible noise sounded from up ahead on the road.
A semi trailer was hurtling towards me at an amazing speed. From here I could not see the driver's face. But he obviously had no intention of stopping.
Then, with the truck metres away from me, I brought the note up to my face, reading the final word just before the truck ran over my head.
The note had said:
YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE BROKEN THE BIRD.