(Disclaimer: All characters in this story belong to Rovio. However, my stories and viewpoints are my original ideas, and do not reflect the opinions of Rovio. Any other uncited reference or copy of another work is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.)
"Who was it?
It was one who did not soar, but whose power could lift any object of being into the heavens.
Where was it?
It was where the underworld bridged to the outside, the path lit by the scant light of a lamp.
When was it?
It was when the millions of eyes in the sky looked down, and great internal wisdom was found.
What was it?
It was what granted the wish of the eyes of the beholder.
How did the eyes?
The eyes held truth in their two orbs.
Why was it?
It was a second chance at life, from forlorn to among others, reawakened.
Who was it?
It was a figment of their imagination."
…and so ended Matilda's dictation of the poem on a content, almost cheerful note. But literary highs are only short-lived, and she soon fell into despondence. It had been more than four days since their triumphant defeat against the pigs, perhaps one of their greatest yet, but at a great cost. The price to pay: pierced by coarse, unforgiving glass shards, Jim's cuts fell victim to a gangrenous infection, which without surprise spread to Jake and Jay; their inseparability was a source of unity, almost functioning as a single organism, never referred as a plural object. Their always jovial personality, while foolish and immature at times, relieved the undeniable tension and stress of being angry for a living. But the flock never saw this positive character in them until they were gone.
"Life is too hard now. I can't handle my anger." Chuck admitted.
"I've taken to punching rocks…but that only worsens my concussion." Red grumbled, turning to Chuck.
The three blues, lying in a coma in a small alcove in the treeless plains of their home, were a saddening vision to see for the birds. The flock themselves were in pain as well, heavily gauzed and supported by crutches. Bomb's fuse was lost to a tourniquet, but it will heal and grow back eventually. But the wounds and trauma, seeing your own friends, the ones you were together with in all the times, would never fully heal through the years. They would accumulate, accumulate, and build up to a tragic event of desperation.
"Terrence. Come and see the Blues!"Terrence's brother, Red called out. Terrence was sitting in his usual afternoon spot, back turned to the sun, moving possibly less than a piece of rock. Red thought to himself. My job, my life is slowly killing me, not just now, but all through these years. I don't want to become like Terrence, tired, old, and emotionless. But maybe we are all destined to become like Terrence, and it's only a question of when. Red looked at his peers, now entertaining mild conversation. Angry birds' attention span is never really good.
The alcove the Blues sat in was painstakingly adorned by Matilda, who was definitely the most maternal of the flock. You could admit she was a control freak, but she had always cared for them, in times of happiness and times of despair, even when she herself was in agony. She was always selfless to them, spoilt them rotten, struggling to see a single misplaced feather on their precious bodies without absolute horror. But she served job adequate enough for the disparate adult males of the Flock, who treated parenting as a nuisance, with pride at that.
Hoping for their speedy recovery, Matilda always read to them daily, at such a precise time everyday that you could set your watch to it. The rest of the Flock thought she was crazy since the blues were comatose, but Matilda believed they could hear her. "Never turn back on your family," she would always say. Red thought about this. Why did he turn his back on Terrence? Did he really makes things right? Why didn't he makes things right-er? Those thoughts from antiquity rushed in like a leaking dam, only to flow away calmly into the stream moments later.
Matilda followed her daily vigils, replacing the old bouquet of flowers now withered and dry in the summer sun with fresh new ones. It was harder to find good flowers today. The enraged sun fiendishly protested against the grass, the birds' water supply, and their hope for better days. And he was winning.
"They're feverish! Give them some water," Matilda urged.
"Your turn." The rest of the flock all said in unison. The nearest stream that hadn't been dried out from the summer sun was more than a two hours' walk. Going by slingshot was out of the question: they were all too hurt, physically and mentally, to do that. Even the water in that stream was brackish, and probably ridden with disease. Matilda always worried about this, but conceded that "we must all make do". The blues were always given first priority for water, then Matilda, based on mutual agreement to a "ladies first" policy, and finally the rest of the flock…if there was any water left.
"Last time, admit it. You had more than your share of water and left everyone thirsty." Matilda scolded Chuck. Even though they were of the same generation, she was a maternal figure to all of the other birds, not that they minded...usually.
"Then why do you take a whole liter of water when we all are lucky to get a drop?" Chuck rebutted.
"It is hard in the hot sun!" Her grievances sounded like the petulant whines of a child.
"Everyone is exhausted!"Chuck raged on. "It doesn't mean you can be so self-serving and only caring about yourself."
Well, this made Matilda fume. The petulant child in her was set aside. "Oh, oh, is that the truth? Well you don't know what stress, I have been through, damn it!"She could be the most aggressive out the flock if you provoked her. Chuck eased back, preparing for the worst. Bomb nodded to him, implying that he has his back. Matilda ranted on, slowly enunciating every word. "I have to get up at three in the morning just to feed and give them water through an IV. I'm the one that stays with them all day, while you get to go about your merrily business. And do I get sleep? No! Tell me, have I missed out? Of course, I would never know, because I wasn't there!
"And oh, your little game of Monopoly you all played last night? What did you say, yellow bird? 'Someone has to take care of the blues, Matilda. You should go to them instead. Sorry.' Ha. What a great consolation. I guess it's just a nice way of saying 'Shoo, we don't want you, get out of our way, get out our life-', right? Don't I deserve some down time? Don't I deserve to be with the rest of you? Or have I been shunned by you?
"But you know how it feels…all too well…right? To be shunned?"
Chuck was silent. The light breeze was louder than the flock for a few moments.
Red broke the silence. "I think it is not Matilda wasting water, but these petty arguments that are. Your saliva is all probably dry now."
"He/she started it!"Chuck and Matilda said in unison.
"It doesn't matter," Red reasoned with them. "The heat of the summer gets us all temperamental, and all that matters is we need food and water to survive. The pigs are probably suffering from the drought too, so they won't be back for a while. If we can set these arguments aside, we'll all be fine. And I'll take care of the blues tonight."
Soon, the sun began to fall, and the flickering of a gentle campfire began to rise. Red sat with the blues, staring intently, examining every fine, tired feather on their bodies. But soon the night got to him, and Red dozed off unexpectedly. An ominous shadow soon approached, waking him up, albeit half-asleep.
"Hey, Terrence." Red mumbled.
"Go to sleep." Terrence boomed.
"Okay. Good night."And he did.
(To be continued...)