The bird was most definitely dead.
The once bright, alert eyes were now clouded over in eternal sleep. The bright blue plumage seemed strange and gaudy, almost unreal to the eye. A slender trickle of dark blood stained the wing feathers. The beak was halfway open, almost like the bird had let out a squawk of protest before dying.
Commodore James Norrington observed the bird with a mixture of disgust and amusement. The creature had flown into his closed office window, fooled by the reflection of blue skies and palm trees on the glass. Now, it had reached its final resting place on the small ledge outside the window, the flies already gathered over its rotting carcass, ready to infest the bird with their squirming white maggot spawn.
He supposed that it was an awful way to die, fooled by an image of false paradise, only then to find the secrets buried beneath. He gave a caustic laugh. Dear Elizabeth and her gold-plated lies.
She would have looked wonderful in a bright blue dress.
James felt the long-hidden resentment and anger build up in his chest. He opened the window and violently pushed the bird off of the ledge. The creature's wings flapped weakly in the air for the last time.
He could have sworn he heard the sickening crunch of bone resounding throughout the small room as the bird fell to its rocky grave.