Change was something he didn't handle well, not after spending most of his adult life in a place of comfortable routine. A warm bed, good food, clean water and a kind word seemed like such primitive things and yet they bore such incredible weight when it came to the meaning of quality of life.
It was the quietness he loved the most, since it allowed him to think clear, feel the gentle breeze move past him, relish the absence of utter chaos; the latter having descended upon the quiet, nondescript house on Hyde Street for days on end, causing them to lose sleep, treasured family belongings and a little more hope in humanity.
He was there when Donald scrambled up the steps, breathing heavy, eyes wide as he glanced back and forth, ensuring nobody had followed him. His breaths were too fast and raspy, his body fighting the violent reaction to the intruders.
But instincts were instincts, he knew about that well enough. Been there, done that…probably more often than Donald or Harlan could imagine.
The pigeon coop had been abandoned by its avian friends a long time ago, standing there as a relic of olden days. And now it was being used as a refuge, a shelter from the world, perhaps even a place of wishes and hopes, fueling a desire to fly away from a place that had become a prison over the course of the last thirty-some years.
For hours, sometimes days, Donald and he would sit in it contemplating, listening to the daytime noises turn into nighttime stillness as the world rested, just to awake again the next morning, following the manic cacophony of light and dark, black and white, life and death.
He knew the coop inside and out, the feel of the weather-worn wood, the slightest of pigeon odor staying behind long after it was cleaned. The floor was nothing but rocks and pebble mixed together atop of a plastic liner. The metal roof had been built with the utmost care, fitting the small structure perfectly and protecting them from the pouring rain and the freezing fog each time Donald came up here to escape his demons.
Some days they were real, other days they weren't- at least to those who couldn't see what he saw, relive what he'd experienced, feel the raw terror that he wouldn't share with anybody.
The kids had been an interesting change.
Part of him wanted to check them out, see if age had made them angrier, or more caring toward those who couldn't fight back. He'd seen it go both ways. Some liked to kick and do evil, others just sat there and listened.
It was beyond his realm of understanding what made one of them kind while another had no respect for the sanctity of life. He just knew that he'd been the recipient of both before.
Donald shared those thoughts with him from time to time as well, asking out loud why humanity was capable of such awful violence, why people murdered and hated each other, why good ones died while bad ones were allowed to live.
Survival of the fittest hardly seemed like an adequate answer.
After the kids came to play in the house, the harmony was destroyed by a loud scream followed by the sense of death, the sight of the terrible accident shaking him to the core.
Too young, he thought, way too young to die. But death had a sense of finality to it that was outside his grasp to change…or accept.
Again, Donald vanished into the coop for a bit, gathering his thoughts while finding the strength to process what had happened.
Eventually he reappeared again, eyes somber, jaws clenched and lips pursed as he walked past him.
With the utmost care, he'd picked up that still little body, groaning at the unusual exercise, then cradled him against his chest, weeping for a few moments before carrying him out to the next room over.
Donald had a gentle vulnerability when it came to death, the kind of sensitivity that was developed by a man who had witnessed violence and destruction far too many times.
As such, he recited a prayer as he laid the child onto the soft couch, caressing his pale face with both of his calloused hands, begging for mercy and salvation for the young soul.
Then, with his eyes red-rimmed and his cheeks shiny, he turned around and walked back up to the pigeon coop.
It didn't take long before the others noticed one of their own missing and suddenly, the quiet house was no longer quiet.
People of all ages and characters showed up, many of the violent and angry, destroying things that weren't theirs.
Then there were two others, their actions slow, considerate and meticulous. They didn't act or even smell like the others. They carried about them an aura of control and serenity he hadn't encountered before.
Their movements were deliberate, their speech articulate with a hint of warmth beneath the guarded professionalism.
The older of the two carried the same burdens Donald did, though he did a better job hiding them outwardly. Nonetheless, every once in a while during his speech, the broken pieces of his soul showed up in his eyes, obvious to see only for those who cared enough.
The younger one was kind and understanding, his humanity and insight so uncommon for somebody that age, his determination no less intense than that of his partner though.
Their arrival coincided with Harlan's disappearance, a startling and quite possibly disastrous turn of events, if his opinion bore any weight.
Because it sure frightened him not having that kind old man around.
On top of it, the arrival of the two friendly strangers had started a flurry of events, none of which this house had seen in so long. The kids never did come back, but their parents did, crudely invading the sanctity of their home, scaring Donald so much that he was curled up in the shed, weaving back and forth, his entire body shaking.
He'd comforted the traumatized man as much as possible, using every trick in the book. What finally did the job was hearing Harlan's voice from the roof access, that gentle, calming singsong he always used when talking to Donald.
He'd known then and there that things would be alright.
The older man was back with Harlan this time around, his eyes a lot warmer, a faint smile appearing on his thin lips as he watched him wander around, returning to the open after a frightening few minutes spent hiding from the menaces.
Something else changed that day.
Donald changed.
For once he was a little less frightened, sometimes even peeking his head out of the pigeon coop when he heard children's voices down below. A lot of that deep pain that crippled him was still there, but there was also a renewed sense of peace, as though a big burden had been lifted off his weary shoulders.
What exactly had done the job remained a mystery, but who really cared in the grand scheme of things?
Stretching his long back in the afternoon sun, he glanced down onto the road, seeing the tan car with the two nice men in it sit across the street as if to guard the home and its two wonderful, caring inhabitants.
Children were squealing in joy near the front door, sharing jokes and words of kindness with Harlan as he got ready to leave again, looking for unique gifts for his treasured brother.
As far as Thom was concerned, gifts weren't necessary. He would be happy as long as the cabinet downstairs was filled with his favorite cat food.
It was a fair price to pay for being the keeper of secrets and the protector of tormented souls.
I hope you enjoyed this little one-shot. I haven't had much time for longer stories but this one had been sitting in the back of my mind for a while. I love my cats, they sure make life more bearable most days. About to adopt 2 new barn kitties into our home tomorrow after losing a couple due to old age last year. They're two girls so I get to pick names tonight.